Fate
Up against your will
Through the thick and thin
He will wait until
You give yourself to him
The next day Logan was standing in the maintenance office, thumbing through the discrepancy log of an aircraft when another joined her.
"Afternoon, Miss Ryder," the voice said, one she'd heard a thousand times over. Without looking, she knew it was Captain Sullivan, a tall regal blonde who Logan had flown with many times before. Her coworker brushed past her as while she continued to look over the data.
"Good afternoon, ma'am." she muttered, perusing the logbook.
Outside, the sweltering heat rippled over the concrete like a thick blanket. Heavy Boeing 747s rolled across a scarred blacktop while smaller aircraft waited along taxiway intersections. The Texas heat was not within full reign, but summer had certainly arrived and it was only going to get worse. Between the jets taking off and engines spooling up, the screaming churrs of cicadas hidden amidst the treetops braided their reprise.
"Lt. Falken is finally getting married. Did she tell you?" Sully added. When Logan shook her head, she continued. "She's having a party at the Menger Hotel in San Antonio, if you want to go. She's been too busy to make official invites so you can consider this your formal invitation."
Interest piqued, Logan looked up towards the Captain smiling. Her bright blue eyes were an unearthly cerulean and a celestial crown of blonde hair, lightened by the sun, was braided to one shoulder. A flight helmet rested along her desk nearby.
"The Menger?" Logan echoed, considering. She enjoyed Texas history as any native would. But San Antonio was bustling, especially near the riverwalk where the Menger was located. It was also steps away from the Alamo.
Tempted to accept the invitation, after a moment's thought, Logan wasn't sure the trip was worth it or appropriate. Her association with Wick followed her like a warning sign. Now she was paranoid people would be after her. Also, the farm was a never-ending chore which she had been neglecting for some time. Ever since her last attempt to fix something broken on her property, she'd been somewhat deterred and heavily armed. Even still, she could still hear the knife punching threw the man's throat, slinging blood spatter onto her face and painting her hands a slick red.
Blinking away the horrific image, she shook her head, looking back down at the logbook.
"I can't, I'm sorry." Logan tried not to make it a habit to fraternize with her colleagues. She came, performed her duties and returned home. No coffee, lunch gatherings, not even company parties or events held annually like Christmas.
A time, of course, before John Wick.
"Have you ever been out with us?" Sullivan asked, brow furrowed with a shadow of pity.
Logan knew the answer and hated admitting it. "No, never actually."
"Then you should come―relax a bit! I'm not going to beg," she deadpanned, "But I can guarantee a good time."
The Captain lifted up her flight bag and draped it over her shoulder, preparing to head out.
Pausing at Logan's side, she added with a salacious wink, "If you decide to go, it's a bachelorette party, so girls only."
After hardly a thought, Logan decided to go. Why not?
Friday had come with a dreary pace and made her restless by the end of work. Perhaps a few hours and distance between her and mercurial John Wick was what she needed to set her fickle thoughts in order.
Shifting through her wardrobe, she searched for something appropriate for the occasion.
Freshly showered, wet hair wrapped in a towel atop her head, and clad in underwear, Logan rifled through the contents of her closet. Sliding aside hanger after hanger, every shade and fabric deterred her. How was she supposed to dress at a bachelorette's party? Skanky? Modest?
Sighing, Logan settled on a little black number she forgot she purchased. It still had the clothing tags attached to it. She held it up against herself, and decided it would have to do. It wouldn't be the first time she threw something on and headed out the door.
Removing, she laid it on the bed. Eyeing her bare feet, she wiggled her toes with indecision. Her comfortable flats clashed with her dress and it was too late to go shopping for another pair. Grace was not Logan's strong suit. She could move gracefully, however, it required much thought and effort.
Despite Jennifer's best efforts to teach Logan the ways of an eloquent, well-accomplished maiden, it was never something Logan willingly did. She found the five inch heels torturous, and only wore them to please her mother. They came off as soon as Jennifer was not looking. Although, Logan grudgingly admitted, high heels certainly had their benefits. When Logan deigned to wear the dreaded footwear, they accented her calves and already high and tight rear end. Unfortunately, much time had elapsed since Logan wore anything other than her work boots and comfortable footwear. She opted for practicality, and pulled out the box containing her two and three quarter inch heeled shoes. Logan slipped the heels with their bright red, patent leather soles on, relieved to see they still fit comfortably―for now.
Moving on, Logan went to do her hair and makeup. After drying her hair, she combed it out, smoothed styling product on the long tresses and curled it into deep spirals.
Next was makeup, another of Logan's weaknesses. Her beauty regimen was as scarce as the dry, Texas plains, but at least she wore deodorant.
Tonight required more effort on her part. Something bold, something different, and unlike her normal routine.
Thoroughly scouting the search engine, Logan reviewed several tutorials before making a decision. Brow furrowed, she intently watched the video, mentally inventorying her cosmetic supplies. As best as she could, she followed step by step, applying charcoals, sweeps of black, and mascara. F
The final result: a smokey number that did well at emphasizing her eyes. Even Logan herself thought so.
After cleaning up, she returned to her bedroom and stepped into her dress. Carefully easing it up her body, she settled the fabric and smoothed it down and removed the tags. The black sumptuous material clung to her like a second skin. Its clever design had built in support panels for lifting and accentuating her bosom. A demure, high neckline flowed into the sheathed skirt that hugged the gentle swell of her hips. Its length fell to just below her knees, and the slit on the side enabled her to walk without hindrance.
Turning, she adjusted the delicate silver chain that secured the shoulders of the rich fabric in place. The sleeveless dress gave way to an open back, plunging to just above the dimples above her rear end. The risque design of her dress emphasized her athletic build, exposed the clear skin of her toned back and shoulders, in addition to showcasing her narrow waist and a firm posterior she was quite proud of.
The last thing to complete her outfit was a firearm.
Better to have it and not need it, than need it and not have it.
Using an all-black compression short fitted with front and rear holstering, she squeezed the fabric on, rolled the dress back down, and rechecked her figure in the mirror again. Thinking of her mother and the shock and awe if she saw Logan now, she smiled. Long hair tumbling down her back in deep ringlet curls, smoky eyes with lashes dark and feather-thick.
Wrapped in a dress, Logan stared at the coiffed, polished attired stranger with the reflection. It never hurt to look her best. Catching a few appreciative glances on the dance floor was not something she aimed for, but it certainly wouldn't hurt to feel pretty.
Forcing herself to slouch and extend an imaginary gut, Logan scratched her belly and smiled when the stunning brunette in the mirror turned into a more familiar posture. Despite the makeup, the dress, and heels, Logan made sure to remain humble.
Chuckling softly, she slipped on her sandals and carried her heels in one hand as she headed towards the safe room.
As she passed John's bedroom, she hesitated.
The door was closed and for a moment, she wondered if telling John was necessary. In truth, however, she wanted him to see this side of Logan Ryder; a more refined elegance, but as soon as the thought arrive, it vanished.
Decided, she continued past, taking the stairs down and following around to the door that led below. This night was not about John; it was about Logan finally allowing herself quality time with herself.
Punching in the code, she entered the dark interior, heading straight for the small compact nine drawer. She placed a black matte Smith & Wesson M&P 9mm Shield on top then a Sig Sauer P938 Scorpion in flat desert tan next to it. She compared the two.
The Shield complimented her outfit, too easy, no question.
Lifting up the hem of her dress, she slipped the pistol into her appendix hostler and smoothed the inky fabric back down.
Due to her petite frame, her pistol was easily identifiable―if someone knew where to look and what to look for... Nonetheless, it would be dark by the time she reached San Antonio. Plus, she truly had no intentions to dance―that would be absurd―so its detection should go unnoticed considering the club's innards would be dim, as well.
Logan was there to people watch. It was a preference she enjoyed and it kept the drink tab low.
Mounting the stairs, Logan rounded the corner and grabbed all her necessities from the bowl at the foyer.
After jotting a quick note down of her whereabouts, she headed for the garage.
Dusk was cooling the horizon as twilight closed in from above.
Driving her father's 2017 white Corvette, Logan pulled up to the Valet parking and awkwardly attempted to exit the very low positioned vehicle.
Carefully placing a high-heeled clad foot on the uneven ground, Logan used the door frame to haul herself up without exposing her upper thighs.
Logan extended her hand, proffering the Valet her keys.
Walking deliberately and slowly, lest the soft, red-leather soles of her heels cause her to slip on the slick cobblestones, Logan crossed the small square and entered the historic and revered Menger Hotel.
Entering the downstairs bar within the hotel was much like stepping back into the 19th century with rich and deep sheens of the polished cherry wood paneling the ceiling and dominating the remaining interior. The Victorian-era styled saloon transported every soul crossing its threshold back to the pioneering days of the untamed, wild west. Only steps away from the Alamo, it was effortless to imagine such a dusty time when Texas fought for her independence and won.
Heavily inspired by London's own House of Lords pub, the Menger's faithfully detailed replication boasted engraved booths, beveled mirrors imported from France, and second floor seating, offering a bird's eye view for patrons to observe the thickening crowds below.
Directly ahead, mounted against a sturdy beam of cherry wood, was the head of a bull moose keeping endless watch over framed photographs of President Theodore Roosevelt. Below that was a tribute to the Rough Riders he recruited to fight in the Spanish-American War.
A shrill report pierced the din of noisy patrons that filled the bar. It turned her eyes upward where she spotted several women leaning over the scarred banister. They were cheering in happy unison at her arrival. Logan smiled with shy delight at their warm welcome and gave a small wave, causing another enthusiastic cheer to erupt from the gaggle of women.
A group of men were gathered at the bar, who―taking note of the happily tipsy women and their lovely newcomer looking up at them, nudged their seated buddies. After turning in their seats, they were treated to an unobscured view of Logan's back. Had she seen their appreciative glances, she would have blushed deeply, especially when several men clutched the nearest buddy's shirt in his fist and bit the knuckles of his free hand, after catching glimpses of Logan's dimples, as her long tresses moved aside when she turned her head. The rest of the men enthusiastically cheered Logan's arrival as well, clapping and adding their cat calls and piercing whistles. By then, the entire patronage gathered within the bar turned to see what all the commotion was about.
Flushed, Logan made her way to the stairwell, ensuring to avoid any eye contact as she did. Three, no, four women converged upon Logan at the top of the stairs. Their squeals and shrieks of delight and surprise at her arrival knew no decibel limit and rivaled that of a roaring Apache helicopter. Only then, did the whistle and clap happy crowd return to their own celebrations and gatherings.
As the revelry developed, several women looked well past their intake limit. Captain Sullivan was one of them, attempting to introduce the remaining patrons to Logan between bouts of laughter. There was Mika Barnett, the company's logistics officer. KD McDonald, the officer in charge of maintenance, and Alex Falken―the bride to be―who helmed the intelligence department as a warrant officer, much like Logan.
Their faces were familiar, yet Logan knew very little about the other women, and vice versa. Her only connecting tie to this group was Sullie and even then they were hardly acquaintances.
Logan sheepishly smiled, accepting and returning each warm, delighted embrace as they graciously welcomed her. Being in the midst of such camaraderie brought another sense of longing. Perhaps she'd been denying herself the wrong vice for too long? Was she drunk from happiness and acceptance?
Are you happy?
Her father's words rushed to the forefront of her mind - a question she had not asked herself that in years . . . with an answer was not yet discovered.
In truth, Logan was simply going through the motions.
The night passed in a blur of colors, sounds and flashes of camera lights. After imbibing several beers with liquor shots between, Logan discovered a newfound courage amidst her friends. She was smiling, laughing, and conversing with strangers, a feat she abhorred since childhood and was enabled by her own untrusting father.
Soon enough, the drunken gang left the Menger bar and ventured outdoors.
Down the picturesque Riverwalk the merry group strolled. Sully had mentioned a club she was wishing to visit and the motley group fell in tandem strides.
The warm, fresh air kept them comfortable, and a slight breeze cooled their liquor fevered cheeks as the women exclaimed and giggled over the smallest antics as they drifted down the Riverwalk like a flock of catty hens.
Streams of lights reflected off the dark rippling water as a boat filled with passengers floated by. Strains of music clashed gently amidst the ambient night air before it was replaced by a nearby Mariachi band.
Logan heard the establishment well before she saw it. From her right, pulsating music lured them away from the riverwalk into the mouth of a shadowy dwelling dubbed MadDog's British Pub.
Their drunken singing and pirouetting blended in as they ascended the small concrete steps. A heavy beat greeted them with a throbbing bass. Its weighted percussion drummed within Logan's chest as she drifted into thick shadows. Alex, the bride to be, quietly hung from Logan's elbow until they reached inside. Passing the hostess, she disconnected herself and veered off towards the bar, leaving Logan to eye the club that was so dark, it was almost a cave sans the flickering lights, changing from green to glaring red to a seductive purple and then a calming blue.
Biting her lip, she edged closer towards the center where most of the dancing occured.
In such a state, Logan's befuddled mind persuaded her to make the most of her liberating night. After all, she'd been stuck inside her home with the stoic, unreadable John Wick; a complete contrast to her currently uninhibited disposition. Whether it was the alcohol's devious effects or her polluted stupor, Logan was past caring.
Just when she turned away, to head for the bar, a gentle hand slipped into her hers. She glanced down and then up, dragging her eyes upward until settling upon the newcomer's handsome face.
Logan smiled, pleased with what she saw.
Equally pleased, he smiled back with sandy blond hair, dimples, and an arching brow that rose with piqued curiosity. Emboldened by her welcoming demeanor, he laced his fingers between hers and leaned to whisper into her ear, pulling her intimately close. Whether he intended to or not, it made Logan feel wanted. Sexy, even.
"Come dance with me," he managed to whisper over such volumes of prattle and music.
Unable to suppress her widening smile, she politely declined. "I don't dance!" she shouted back.
He gave her a pleading, cajoling look as flashes of blue washed over his rugged features.
"Not even for me?" He winked. Confident.
One her many lists of pet peeves were individuals who believed that with enough begging, they could always get their way. Setting her jaw, she shook her head and pulled her hand free. Despite his handsome face, Logan had enough contact for the evening. Not only was his proximity far from enticing, more importantly, she wished it were someone else.
Taking a step back, she bumped into a towering passerby clad in sharp black suit. Hoping to cause a distraction, she turned her head to apologize, but he was gone. The man had disappeared into the thick crowd, abandoning any segue she could utilize as an escape.
"Let me buy you a drink first?" his voice took her back, stepping closer so that she could hear him.
Deliberating, Logan finally agreed. The sooner they shared a drink, the sooner he'd leave her alone.
They downed a shot of tequila while he motioned to the bartender for more shots. After Logan eagerly sucked on her third lime wedge to rid her mouth of the assaulting taste, the stranger gently pulled her towards the dance floor. Standing upon the stretch of smooth flooring, his pale hair took on a surrealistic, chameleon-like quality beneath the kaleidoscopic lights. She tried to shake off her growing unease and ignore how the lights danced across his sharp features and gave him a sinister, demonic look.
As she drifted with the grace of lapping flame, Logan was thankful her feet didn't ache, especially as she was twirled and swayed beneath the medley of soft lights. Her partner was gentle, grasping her small wrists carefully as he draped them over his shoulders, his hands drifting down to rest against the swell of her hips as they swayed together.
He pulled her close, inadvertently pressing the frame of her 9mm Shield against his lower abdomen. Whether he noticed it or not, he gave no indication, and they continued to dance.
"What's your name?" he asked over the rising volume of music and drunken laughter.
"Michelle," not technically a lie.
"I'm Travis." he replied, "Are you from San Antonio?"
"No," she dropped her head back against her shoulders, closing her eyes against the soft lights washing over her face. He turned her around, pulling her back against his chest. The tequila was taking over because she allowed it.
"I'm from Corpus Christi," she fibbed.
"Oh, are you?" Hot breath brushed her neck as he spoke. "What brings you all the way up here?"
"Work," she murmured forcefully, tired of the talking.
Logan knitted her brow, trying to concentrate on anything but Travis. Just moments before she had felt euphoric, riding on the gentle waves of her inebriation. Now, she couldn't relax. The music that drummed around them was far too loud for conversation. She wished he'd just shut up and dance. He was ruining her mood with all the senseless chatter.
In fact, Logan realized suddenly, she'd lost interest entirely. Dancing, talking, all of it. Besides, she probably looked ridiculous. On top of that, the more time she spent with Travis the more uncomfortable she became.
Pulling away at once, she thanked him for the drinks and the dance, and slipped back into the dense crowd.
When she returned to the bar, she found Alex nursing a beer and alone. Logan gestured for a second one and climbed onto a stool next to the bride-to-be.
"Thank you," Logan huffed when the cold beer appeared before her. A chilly wisp drifted over the opening like a graveyard fog. She took a long pull and sighed. "My feet hurt now."
Alex smirked as she took a small sip, "That's why I wore Converse."
Logan nodded, bringing the mouth of the bottle back against her lips. She tilted it back and the bubbles rushed over her tongue, cooling her throat as she drank.
As they sat against the bar drinking, the surmounting drinks filled her bladder. The pistol pressed against her lower torso only added to her urgency; eventually Logan had to relieve herself, she could no longer ignore nature's call.
"Watch my drink." She slid off the barstool, dropping almost half a foot to the floor. She wandered through the thick crowd, spotting an illuminated hallway across the way with an emergency exit at the end. Restrooms was what captured her eyes.
Fighting the congested crowd, she weaved and elbowed her way through until finally reaching the short hallway. A pounding fell out of sync with the music.
Heavy footsteps or was it just music?
Her hands came up, extending for the door while a force suddenly collided against her backside. Stumbling forward, the door was shoved open, nearly twisting her ankle as her heels ungainly sought the floor. She fell inside, tripping and plummeting onto the hard, dirty tile. As quickly as the door opened, it shut, snuffing out the rhythmic music as Logan wrenched around and looked up.
Locking the door, Travis stood before her.
A spike of sobriety jarred her as she narrowed her eyes up at him.
Unable to understand what was about to happen, she could only glare up at him disdainfully.
Travis stepped forward. Reaching down, he snatched a fistful of her hair and roughly hauled her to her feet. Logan clutched his wrist, trying to free herself as she kicked out at him.
"You know what I want," he grated as he threw her forward, pinning her against the wall. He was upon her immediately, tongue pressing insistently against her pursed lips, hands scouring her body cruelly. She fought him, pushing and clawing as he pawed at her dress.
"Get the fuck off of me!" she shrieked.
"Why?" He snarled as he lowered his zipper. "Don't act like you don't want it!"
Logan raised a foot, trying to spike him with her heel. She missed. The alcohol's effects inhibited her strength and coordination. Unable to maneuver enough space between them to defend herself, Logan was helpless as Travis crowded against her and used his body and height to his advantage.
"Get off me!" she shrieked again, desperately attempting to ward off his roving hands.
Travis cut off Logan's protests by sealing her lips with his. No matter which way she turned her head, he followed, swiping his tongue across her face as he licked her fevered skin. Travis swatted her hands aside and pulled her dress up. When her thighs were exposed, he brought his hand up with the intention to paw like animal at her lower torso, but instead, brushed her pistol.
Logan tried to wrench free, to squirm and use all efforts of training, but he freed the pistol from its holster and she felt the barrel press right into her temple.
She froze.
"Turn around," he panted into her ear, grinding his hips into hers so she could feel the unmistakable bulge in his pants.
Rape.
The word came like a shock of cold water, kickstarting her heart and sending frightening jolts down to her fingertips.
The tip of her Shield was trembling against her skull as he spoke with excitement. A round was loaded into the chamber, as always. Furthermore, Shields came with a trigger safety, not a conventional external thumb switch. Between the bullet and her skull was a fully depressed trigger and nothing else.
"Yeah, don't act surprised, Michelle. You think you can walk away from me? I'm gonna fuck every hole you've got, bitch. Turn around!"
Rape.
She obeyed, twisting around until her exposed back faced him. Fear battled against her thoughts as she tried to recall the moves she'd learned for this very scenario. Meanwhile his fingers dug into her waistband, yanking the fabric down and revealing her flesh.
Rape.
The word ricocheted in her head, forcing her careful thoughts to derail back into fight or flight mode.
Do something! Her begging mind reeled as panic flared across her chest, stiffing her limbs and scattering her thoughts. What was she supposed to do again? Bring her elbow down, catch her arms, and drive her knee upward?
What about the loaded gun pressed to her head?
She'd never expected in such a crowded place, something so horrific could occur. This was not how it was to happen, not against her will. It was not up to a stranger to take something so personal and intimate from her in a shambly bathroom.
Icy fear worked her lungs in ragged, short breaths as she tried to clear her head. Of all the training she'd endured and practice for such an occasion, the one thing that had been omitted was real fear. She'd never expected to feel so helpless and overruled.
Then a knock came from the door, stiffening both Logan and Travis. What kind of irrational decisions would he make now that someone was at the door?
The Shield trembled in his white-knuckled grasp as he racked his mind on what to do.
Though, she wanted to scream for help, she found herself more focused on the pistol than anything else.
"Tell them you're in here," he hissed in her ear. "Say thing else and I kill you both." Travis had locked the door on his way in, but it was a timeworn slide latch with a frame barely held onto the surface of the door.
Trembling, Logan obeyed.
"Someone's in here!" Focused on the barrel against her face, her quivering voice made her words faint and strained as she spoke. Another series of knocks, incessant and louder than the previous had the door rattling on its decaying hinges.
"For fuck's sake, say it louder," he hissed once more, pressing the barrel harder against her scalp.
She licked her lips and tried again, "Someone's in—"
As loud and startling as a gunshot, the door flew open and the barrel disappeared from her head. Logan turned, trying to duck away as she pulled her undergarment back up. The newcomer and Travis went head on, punching her assailant across the face and forcing him to fall back against the fleeing woman.
They both fell to the floor. Her gun was dropped and sent skittering across the tile, far out of reach.
Then someone's hands were upon her, hauling her to her feet then steering her towards the exit.
A tall man in a black suit.
Plucking up her pistol, Logan stumbled forward, cursing the contraptions around her feet as she reached for the door. Holstering the weapon, she glanced back, seeing John reach down, grab Travis by the collar and deliver several more blows. His head bucked back while blood exploded from his nose. His incapacitated frame fell back into a slack heap to be left abandoned in the women's bathroom.
Turning, John stood, caught her by the arm, and exited the bathroom.
Stunned and still rather inebriated, though not as much as before, Logan followed mutely. They took a left, away from the deafening music and writhing bodies towards the exit she'd spotted earlier, before her night took a terrible turn.
Breaking out into a temperate night under a full moon, they walked outside into the back portion of the club where a loading ramp and freight equipment awaited them. Shattered glass littered the dark pavement beneath the streetlights like stars and a dilapidated fence separated the alley from a barren parking lot filled with weeds and cracked asphalt.
John took the stairs down, in which case, so did Logan. He hadn't released his hold yet. Blinking, and still quite drunk, her curiosity was too much. Though she was relieved to find John here with impeccable timing, it still made her wonder.
"What are you doing here, John?" she asked, trudging along.
"I followed you," he muttered, weaving their path around parked cars and dumpsters. "And you're welcome."
"I had it under control," she shot back, nostrils flaring in irritation.
Glaring at his back as they stole their way among the shadows, Logan jerked and snatched her arm free. She opened her mouth to protest, but he whirled around, caught her wrist yet again, and pulled her along.
Dressed entirely in black, she realized John was appropriately attired for the occasion in a tailored suit, dress shoes and a black collared Oxford she hadn't seen before. She tried to recall where he got such articles, but her mind drew a blank. They were not her father's clothes, and certainly didn't belong to the oak tree that was Kennedy.
"Where did you get that suit from?" The inane question left her mouth as she stumbled and tottered along as fast as her heels and ungainly gait allowed.
"I've had it," he said over his shoulder as he searched the shadowy recesses for anything awry.
Tilting her head as John dragged her along, Logan slipped her free hand beneath the flaring end of his coattail and her fingertips brushed against the unmistakable pistol's frame and several loaded magazines.
Figures, she thought with jealousy, she'd have multiple magazines too if her dress allowed concealment.
John whipped around, catching her free wrist in a painful hold, assuming she was trying to disarm him.
"You are hurting me," she grumbled, glaring up at his unreadable visage.
"You need to be more careful."
Reaching the edge of the square, they had taken a long, circuitous route around the hotel and its neighboring businesses. By doing so, they skirted the more congested areas like the Riverwalk. Together, they entered the Menger hotel and approached the front desk where a middle-aged woman behind the counter fixed Logan with a stern look. Her lips curled downward with thinly veiled disgust at Logan tethered to a well-dressed business man looking to end his night with an anonymous rut.
John's possessive grip on her upper arm only sealed the woman's mistaken assumption. As they passed a mirror, a brief glimpse of herself revealed to Logan she had danced and panicked her pretty facade away. Unfortunately for her, Logan realized she did, in fact, resemble a licentious escort. Feeling her cheeks warm, she stared at the floor and then at her dirty heels now speckled in mud and wet gravel.
Deeply embarrassed at her shameful state, Logan turned her face away, looking elsewhere but at the frowning, disapproving woman behind the reception desk. Despite Logan's damning circumstances, the architecture around her was in stark contrast: clean, a pristine white, and smelled wonderful. John, too, glanced around, counting the patrons and exit routes, seeming ill at ease―and rightly so…
Once the transaction completed, the woman handed John their room keys with a dour smile.
"Thank you," he politely told the woman before taking the card keys and heading towards the second floor. Logan removed her heels, unable to withstand another moment perched atop the torturing devices.
Padding quietly up the stairs, the moment they slipped beyond earshot and the line of sight of any observers, Logan jerked her arm away and halted.
Splaying her toes to keep from losing her balance, she crossed her arms tightly over her chest and raked John with a slitted glare.
"Why are you really here, John?" she hissed. "I could have taken care of that man myself. You don't have to babysit me."
He regarded her coolly, slipping his free hand into his pocket casually.
"I had the situation under control." Logan further insisted through tightly gritted teeth.
"With what?" he tilted his head, "Your pistol?"
"Yes," she unabashedly admitted, blinking to consolidate her doubling vision.
"No," John said simply. "You weren't."
He turned away and continued towards their room, his long strides soon leaving her behind. Indignant, Logan scampered after him, recalling the fight in vivid detail with John's miraculous intervention. It was too fluid.
"Were you watching me?" she hissed quietly.
He shoved the card into the reader and the light blinked green. Slamming the handle down, he pushed the door open and propped it against the wall with a splayed hand. Turning his eyes onto Logan, he gave her a look.
Logan peered into the dimly lit room and then towards John. "Why are we even here?"
"You're drunk, Logan." he replied calmly. "I'm leaving you here."
"I'm not going in there," Logan declared as she crossed her arms again, heels dangling from her fingers while she glared with unwavering defiance.
John eased up on the door, taking careful glances up and down the halls.
Reading this, Logan tried jumping back when he moved, but she hadn't twisted around in time. He caught her waist seconds before she launched into a sprint.
"Let go." she growled, thrashing wildly. He quickly pulled her into the room, lest they soon have an audience. Throwing her heels aside as she caught the doorframe with all her might, pulling with barely enough purchase. Slowly, she began slipping from John's hold.
John's leg shot up. Braced against the wall, he pulled her back and the doorframe was ripped from her grasp. The door closed with a firm click and they both fell to the floor. Logan was already scrambling to her feet, making a beeline for the door. Again, John thwarted her efforts by intercepting her. He placed himself between her and the only exit.
Only . . . exit?
They were on the second floor.
Logan threw a glance over her shoulder, eyeing the sliding glass door and the balcony beyond it. John already anticipated her next move and advised against her foolish course of action.
"Don't―."
Turning, she ineptly raced across the room. Coordination severely impaired, she tripped over her bare feet, landing against the soft carpet. John caught her, flipped her onto her back and straddled her hips. His combed back hair fell forward onto a sweat-beaded brow and heat rolled off of him like a small sun. The suit had to be thick and stifling against the warm Texas air. Unfortunately―and from what she could tell―the distinguished ensemble also allowed full range mobility.
Logan threw her hips up, her dress hiking around her waist as she struggled, the black compression shorts and their contents revealing themselves. John crawled up until his knees pressed painfully into her upper arms, pinning her to the floor. Reaching back, he fumbled the gun free. A quick flick of his wrist dropped the magazine as he jettisoned the chambered round before he threw the gun aside and stood, assuming the fight had reached its end.
Wrong.
As he stood, using the element of surprise Logan jumped to her feet, spearing him about his midsection. He pivoted, moving with her, and backing himself into a wall. Wrestling her arms free, he lifted her up to her full stature, wrenched around and slammed her back against the wall.