Archive of Our Own

Tuesday: “Demand it, make them”

Another Tuesday, another yell-at-bullying-assholes-day at good old Neptune High. Why is burning down the school a bad idea exactly?  Veronica wonders furiously as she hurries down the hallway, away from Mandy and assorted tormentors, her shit-kicking boots making a smudgy squeak with every stomp.

Someone grabs her arm from behind and she knows who it is before she even looks at his face. It's his height, his smell— the pleasant tickle of expensively subtle something or other, the way he crowds into her space like it's his. He doesn't give her time to argue, just pulls her into Mr. Woods’ sophomore homeroom: dream catchers and C.S.N.Y. quotes adorning the walls. “The past is just a goodbye”, pass the bong, man, and other important lessons from the '60s.

“Do not start with me today, Logan.”

Logan holds his hands up. “Whoa, whoa, Scratchy. I wanted to get you away from Sofer's stink. I think you just made him crap his pants.”

“Lovely. And with that charming observation-”

Veronica moves towards the door and Logan blocks her, ducking down to her height. “Hey. Why the rush?”

His voice is casual, too casual, the kind that sets off alarms whenever he uses it. But also different. There is a hesitancy to it that shouldn’t feel like Christmas. Definitely not that. A lesser holiday. President's Day.

The fact of the matter is, she and Logan had kissed a few days ago and it had been great, but she hadn’t decided yet what to do with the experience. Other than maybe not let it happen again. Or the opposite.

Veronica blows her hair out of her face, and goes for what she knows. Contempt.

“Oh, I see.” she says, smiling fatuously. “You want some of that too. Okay.” She crosses her arms. "Where do you want me to start? We could be here all night.”

He widens his eyes for a second— a pulse, a fire-flare. “Really? Could we?”

Typical. She rolls her eyes and steps into his space, poking his shoulder with two fingers, hitting. Each. Word. “Move it.”

“Look. I'm sorry.”

“For what? Global warming? Class inequality? That jacket? Come on, Logan. Spit it out, I have about fifteen errands to run after school and that's before I even get to start working on my essay on La Belle Dame Sans Merci.”

“You like this jacket,” he says, his smile wobbling into cockiness.

It’s the same one from the Camelot.

“No, I don't.”

“You do.”

They hold an impromptu staring contest and while Veronica doesn't blink, she does smile. Dammit.

“I've got a secret,” Logan says, looking down at her feet. He toes the rounded front of her boots. It takes too long. “I love watching you fight.”

“What?”

His lashes are long and light, they flutter prettily. “It's uh, exciting. Your fury.” Logan gives her a bashful-seeming one shouldered shrug, the smile on his face a little less cocksure than it was before.

Vulnerability. Uh oh. Veronica shakes her head and tries to walk around him but he drops to his knees in front of her, in one smooth slide.

“What are you doing?”

Logan gazes up at her earnestly. “I'm trying to apologize.”

Veronica shoves him by the shoulder and he bounces back, like those balloons children use for punching practice.

“Cut it out.”

He opens his jacket and indicates a spot in the middle of his chest. “Here. Hit me here. I deserve it.”

“No.”

“Do it. You know you want to.”

“I don't. I don’t want anything from you.”

She bends down to force him up but a curious thing happens when her hand gets ahold of that soft, beige suede— she grabs it and pulls him to her hard. This time their kissing isn't a soft, slow, tentative haze, it's rough, wild, a crackle of electricity and motion. Veronica knocks her forehead into his cheekbone, ignores the pain, moves on. Licks at his teeth and nuzzles the corner where his jaw pulse jumps, her hands grabbing at his shoulders, his face, arms, hair. She wants to tear him apart. Hear all those puka shell beads clatter all over the floor.

He stands and pulls her up to him, her legs going tight against and around him, automatically. They spin until they hit a desk and it clatters back, courtesy of that single short leg that seems to be required of all Neptune High desks. And still they don’t break. Her lips, his skin. She scratches, he gasps.

Logan kisses her earlobe and then her neck, setting her on the surface and sliding up and down her body like an amorous cat. Veronica giggles and he looks up at her in surprise, flushed, open-mouthed, and the two pink circles on his cheeks making him look like every illustration of a pretty little boy. He rocks against her, pushing his jeaned leg between her thighs. Veronica pushes back, rides the pressure, and the ride is slower than the kiss. She could get off on this. Damn. She is actually getting off on this. Oh god.

“I'm glad you're wearing a skirt,” he mumbles, his lips at her collarbone.

“But I'm not.” She wasn't, she'd put on cords that morning. Veronica looks down at herself. Her skirt is not a skirt but a dress; it's white. She's wearing a dark blue cardigan over it, Lilly's necklace at her chest— it shines.

They're in her old house now, moving boxes line the walls. One of the boxes is covered in a rusty brown paint.

“What is that?” Veronica runs her finger along the corner, the paint is dry. It flakes off on her fingers in large, cracked pieces.

“That's the color of blood when it dries.”

Logan has a split lip and bloody knuckles. Did I do that?  The phone is ringing but she doesn't know which box it's in.

He reaches his hand out and she hesitates before taking it. His stare is dark and so intense she’s not sure whether to laugh or throw her panties. Bit by bit, a tug of woolen sleeve, elbow, upper arm, his fingers finding the spot by her shoulder blade that makes her cave, he pulls her in until all she sees are his lips, his teeth bared in a snarl.

“Gotcha.”

Veronica wakes up with a start. The phone on the nightstand rings, disturbing the quiet. 12:36 a.m. She picks up, her heart hammering in her ears.

“Hello?”

Silence and breathing.

“Is it you?” she asks.

A soft click is the response.

Wednesday: The Neptune High Parking Lot Blues

His hands have never been clammy, he's Iceman, he's smart. He knows how to breeze through situations with the greatest of “who me?” ease. Everyone is gonna die someday, so why give a fuck at all? Answer: because Veronica Mars closes her eyes when she kisses, tastes like cinnamon gum, spicy and sweet, and the heat off of her is something he wants to live in. Excellent reasons, he thinks. Choose life, as a celluloid poet once said. Or was it Wham!?  Whatever. Point is. He's choosing. Choosing to be saved.

Hence the afterschool lurking in the Neptune High parking lot, leaning against his car, just wishing and hoping and praying for a run-in with her. Like she's the life preserver to his drowning man. When more than likely she'll be the one holding him under.

You know that isn't true.

“Logan.”

His head snaps up. “What?”

“If you're holding, you better be sharing, bro.”

Dick smiles and swipes at him, Logan steps out of his way easily.

“Seriously. You're like, soooooo squirrely right now.” Dick lowers his voice a laughable fraction. “Don't worry, your eyes don't even look bloodshot.”

Logan sighs grandly, scratching the inside of his arm with the backs of his fingers. “‘It is not opium which makes me work but its absence.’ Antonin Artaud.”

“‘Legalize it.’ Some Rasta dude.”

Dick takes a moment to flip his hair to the side, squinting his eyes seriously as if contemplating his own mortality, which probably involves following a herd off of a cliff.

“Good to know, Dick. Thanks for the reassurance.”

“Look, me and Beavs are gonna go home and play some God of War. Let me know if you’re down, or if you need to talk or anything.”

Logan pauses, momentarily thrown off by Dick's attempt at kindness. “Thanks, man. I’m cool. Some other time.”

Dick high fives him, then fists bumps him, and concludes with a shoulder bump. “Laters,” he says and does a lazy jog over to his silver pick-up truck, slapping his sleeping little brother on the head hard before zooming off. Beaver’s screech of protest blends with Dick’s laughter in the queasy harmony of siblings. It fades away as they peel out of the lot.

Logan isn't sure what is happening, either with his life or with the tiny (but so fucking hot) terror who has taken over his every waking thought but he's definitely not having heart to heart Golden Girls moments with Dick Casablancas any time soon. In fact, Duncan, the only person he could, maybe, talk to, is absolutely the last person that would want to know about this particular development. Also, there is the small matter of his best friend being missing. Why, he doesn’t know. Every week, every day, Logan knows him less and less.

He hadn’t lied to Veronica the other day, Celeste had called about DK but what he hadn’t told his teensy frienemis (nemefriend?) is that he’d suggested that Celeste hire Mars Investigations to find Duncan. While it had been forty percent perversity, the kind Lilly would have rewarded him for, the rest of his motivation was murky at best. Logan doesn’t think much of the former sheriff's sleuthing skills but his daughter… well. She can do anything.

Logan bangs his head back on his car and looks over at his wing mirror. He fiddles with the angle of it nervously and sees her then, in the reflection, whizzing past, hands in the pockets of her plaid jacket, shoulders hunched. He spins around, but before he can stride over, she’s intercepted by Wallace Fennel. They talk, bantering back and forth, and it’s easy and light. Logan watches them and suddenly thinks that maybe this thing between him and Veronica was nothing— what happened on that motel balcony was nothing— and that he’s a deluded asshole.

Veronica, now at the wheel, turns around to back out of her spot. She sees him, opens her mouth, breathes in, and there— the tiniest of head nods. He’s caught.

Logan lifts his hand. Hello. I’m an idiot, he thinks, dumbly. She smiles as if she hears him and drives off, her blonde hair fluttering back.

People filter in and out of his peripheral vision. A sea of yellow and green uniforms with duffle bags, post-game rumbling. Another group, stoners and Hot Topic rejects, not so surreptitiously smoking and laughing. Four or five freshman girls giggling, then going quiet as they pass him, like birds before a storm.

He’s never been here this late on a Wednesday and Logan can’t seem to move. It’s only when Lucky Dohanic passes by, asking Logan if he wants to hang when he gets out of work in an hour, that Logan comes to, making a fast excuse and speeding home to a mercifully empty house.

Veronica smiled at him, he thinks, repeatedly, sitting in bed, and flicking his grandfather’s lighter on and off.

Thursday: That’s Amore or The Back Streets Drive

Damn, he can kiss.

So three confusing sex dreams and a strong mental replay of their Camelot make-out sesh doesn’t exactly prime her to play it cool once the opportunity arises to resume spit swapping. The boy had played her like a Stradivarius tonight; letting her do what she does best with no complaints or cross examination, helping her into his bananamobile, his hand low on her back, introducing unexpected adrenaline triggering hijinks, the soft, soft way he looks at her before kissing her again. The way she feels like this is the most dangerous thing she’s ever done but also the safest. How she can barely remember him being any different than how he used to be. She wants it to be real in the worst way.

Logan is a good driver. A little fast, sure, but also mindful, hyperaware. His hands tap at the steering wheel and she fights the urge to grab one, just to feel the pressure of his thumb against her wrist, like some hot and heavy moment right out of Wharton. He looks over at her, quickly, and takes her hand. Great. Logan Echolls, now with added ESP.

He smiles. “Normally, this is the part where I ask you about your hopes and dreams. But I already know it’s world domination and a pony.”

She does her best Mr. Burns. “You forgot the lifetime supply of baked ziti.”

“But that’s less goals, and more like regular scheduled sustenance.”

I’ll show him sustenance. And yes, that was a thought she just had.

Veronica is losing her mind. The night was supposed to have been about going over to Logan’s house to confront Trina’s abusive boyfriend, not reenacting something out of Nancy and Ned at Inspiration Point. She bites the corner of her bottom lip and looks out at the enormous moon rising over the hills, full and red. It’s all the moon’s fault. Thinks the girl who is currently holding the hand of her one-time sworn enemy and whose life is now apparently a teen movie. But where's the catchy alt-indie soundtrack? Maybe featuring a couple of upbeat R&B jams for Wallace? The strong mental image of Wallace’s “Say what now?” scowl flashes before her eyes and she laughs.

She lets go of Logan's hand. “So what were Caitlin Ford’s hopes and dreams exactly? Getting a breast augmentation that could double as an airbag? A diamond encrusted labial piercing?”

Logan laughs. “Improving international relations, I think? Can’t deny her commitment to the cause. What about your juice slingin’ boy toy? Remember him? You sent him off with candy. I thought that was sweet.” He wrinkles his nose for emphasis.

“Ah, you had to go digging.”

“Inquiring minds, Veronica Mars.”

“See, that’s where we differ. I didn’t have to know his hopes and dreams. That wasn’t what interested me.”

“But you know mine,” he says with a grin.

“Ownership of Celebrity Skin and a gang of straight jacketed monster henchmen to do your dirty work? Yeah. I’m familiar.”

The edge in her tone is hard to miss and while she hopes he didn’t catch it, she knows from his silence that he definitely did.

“So uh, how about them Padres?” he says, after an endlessly awkward minute.

“Et tu, Logan?”

“Oh yeah, I forgot your dad was a Padres fan. He home?”

“Yeah. He likes to wait by the door with a polygraph test. Good times.”

Her dad is out with Wallace’s mom but Logan doesn’t need to know that. He turns down her street, hitting the familiar series of potholes that always means home.

She wince-smiles. “Umm, it goes without saying that I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to come in or anything.”

“Right.”

“You’re not exactly his favorite person.” Or mine, really, she thinks. “But you can park in the back for a bit and we can talk.” Talk. Yeah, right.

He nods and drives to the back of the building, pulling up to a spot where they can see the back entrance but those entering can’t see them. She doesn’t want to think too hard about the meaning of that.

“I forgot you’d been here before.”

Logan turns on the radio and Mariah Carey’s We Belong Together blares out. He frowns, turning to her in perfect deadpan. “I paid them to do that.”

He lowers the volume and hits play on the CD player. Something soft, vaguely sexy, mood-setting, steady. Perfect for slipping a hand under a sleeve, touching the faint scar she knows he has there.

Veronica realizes that the longer she’s in the car with him, the more likely she is to forget herself. As she’s unbuckling her seatbelt, Logan leans over and kisses her again, tentative and off-center in a way that makes her want to eat his face. So she does and is rewarded with the soft sigh of a moan that she doesn’t think he even knows he’s made. He rests his forehead against hers.

“I better get inside,” she breathes.

“Right.” He brushes his lips on her cheek and leans back with a smile. “Thanks for coming with me. Sorry about the R-rated violence. Dad thinks he’s Dirty Harry sometimes.”

“It was all in the aid of the good. Besides, I love helping out damsels in distress.”

Logan raises his eyebrows. “I think Trina wou—”

“I wasn’t talking about Trina.”

“Right.” He flicks invisible femme fatale tresses over his shoulder. “I knew I could count on you, Detective Mars.”

And that might be the hottest thing a boy has ever said to her.

Veronica stretches out her hand, fingers spread like a starfish, and instead of intertwining their fingers, he touches the tips of hers with his.

“Dependable, that’s me all over, doll.”

He chuckles, a curlicue of small, infectious laughter. Logan considers her, turning his face slightly. “I know you can take care of yourself, butchie, but I’ll stay here until you get inside.”

She almost asks him in. But she isn’t sure yet. Almost sure. Veronica turns at the door, waves a tiny wave, and hurries inside her complex.

Backup barks happily as she enters the apartment and skitters around her. “Hey, boy. Miss me?”

He wags his tail and Veronica pets him, hard strokes on his flanks. The phone rings.

“I’m in, dog activated, taser charging.”

“You have a taser?”

“Oh, there is so much you don’t know.”

“I can’t wait to find out.”

Deep inside her, muted and hoarse from lack of use, there might be some internal squealing going on. Play it cool, Veronica. Don't show your hand.

“Uh, is your dad gonna come after me for this post 9 p.m. phone call?” Logan mumbles, suddenly serious.

She looks at the spot where her dad would normally be sitting, his head tilt/eyebrow raised What are you doing, Veronica?  face, and it’s like he’s there.

“Nah. He's sleeping.”

“Early to bed, huh? If I remember correctly, he can sleep through the apocalypse.”

“Who told you that?”

“You did. A long time ago.”

She sits down, grabs a pillow and puts it on her lap. Backup jumps on the couch, lays his head on it, and looks up at her with large soulful eyes.

“Look, Veronica. I don't know what's happening here but, uh, I know I want to keep seeing you so, I dunno. Do you want to?”

“Do I want to what?”

“See each other?”

“Naked?” The words are out of her mouth before she can filter them. Hearing Logan's surprised little huff makes it oh so worth it.

“Any way.”

Oh, Logan. Is this how you kept Lilly coming back for more? Lilly. And Duncan. Her body gives a jolt of guilt at the thought of her ex.

“I told you I did. What about Duncan?” she asks, tentatively.

“I would prefer not to see him naked.”

She stops petting Backup and he whines softly in complaint. “You don't sound too concerned about your missing friend. Your best friend.”

Logan sighs. “Of course I'm concerned. It's Duncan. But he's not a suicide.”

Did he ever think his mother would be?  She gasps softly at the harshness of the thought. Logan misinterprets the sound.

“Look, you know him. When he's upset about something he hides out. He's probably in Napa having grilled cheese sandwiches made for him by Suzy the Wacko and reading The Cider House Rules for the millionth time.”

“I don't think so, Logan. That's too easy. They would've found him by now.”

“Well, wherever he is he's coming back. He wouldn't leave without saying goodbye to me.”

He’s probably right.

“Anyway, back to more pleasant topics... I’m fine with the game plan. Down low courting, it is.”

“Courting?” She laughs.

“Yeah.” Logan’s voice is light, sweet. “If you see me walking down the street, walk on by. But if I happen to catch you near a secluded corner, then all bets are off.”

“Seems fair.”

“I thought so. I’ll be discreet. But hey, uh, I did want to discuss weekend opportunities. Clandestine meetings away from the prying eyes of Neptune. Secret identities. Costumes.”

“I have to work.”

“Right. So uh, Saturday after work. Are you free at all?”

“Awfully eager, are we?”

“I thought maybe we could hang out and talk or something.” He pauses and Veronica imagines his fingers playing on the dashboard surface, tapping it, a habit of his since forever. Logan clears his throat, serious and maybe-nervous. “We uh, don't have to do anything.”

“Where's the fun in that?” Veronica says with a breeziness that’s more feigned than felt. “I have to work a case tomorrow. I’ve been slacking on it a little— so I should have my hands full, secret hallway winks or no. But feel free to text me, I'll let you know.”

“Okay.”

This is too easy. “Have to go. My student-by-day persona requires that I do this thing called studying.”

There. Perfect set-up. Hooker-by-night, right?  She waits for it… and nothing.

“Night, Veronica.”

“Night, Logan.”

She hangs up. The red light of the answering machine blinks steadily and Veronica presses play while she sifts through the mail. Bills, bills, bills. She’s going to need to pick up a few more paying cases.

There’s an open one she could probably take care of on Saturday. A few hours worth of work tops. Typical proof of solvency. Her dad had heard a rumor that the target, a guy who had long been doing the whole living-without-a-bank-account-pay-only-in-cash thing, had been getting sloppy lately and making some pretty extravagant lifestyle decisions. Probably figured that enough time had passed and that the aggrieved party was no longer paying attention. If Veronica could get proof that he was still loaded, then their client could finally collect on an award the man hadn't paid ten years ago, an award that had accrued enough interest to now be worth a cool three million. Congrats, deadbeat. You just shot to the top of my weekend to-do list. But first, sleep.

Her yawn gets cut off by the mush-mouthed tones of one Deputy D’Amato.

“Veronica Mars. You are an elusive young lady and as a diligent enforcer of the law, I have to tell you that–” Leo breaks off. Sweet, funny, cute, and helpful Leo. “Okay, I had something funny and I forgot what it was. The moment is lost. Give me a call. And uh, Mister Mars if you’re listening, I hope you are well, sir.”

Fuck.

Friday: Bodies, Rest, and Motion, an interlude

In his efforts to catch a glimpse of Veronica, Logan looks at people at Neptune High more closely than he ever has in his life. The experience is eye-opening. There is one guy walking around wearing a Three Musketeers-style feathered chapeau and Logan feels like his internal tracking system for things to mock is way the fuck off. It has to be. The thing has feathers.

He’s buzzed, outrageously alert, and he hasn't felt this way in a long time. He wants to tell everyone he knows but he can’t, obviously. Last night, after dropping Veronica off, he wandered into his mother’s walk-in closet— all of her clothes bagged and tagged for appraisal— and told her, the space where she would be. Drinking Chardonnay, and figuring out what to wear. Smiling at him over her shoulder. She’d loved Veronica, always asked about her even though she knew they were on the outs. She would’ve loved this. His mom was a big romantic and what could be more romantic than friends to-

Logan straightens up, a cold/hot feeling washing over him. It isn't that simple. Of course not. It’s his life.

Despite his efforts, he never catches sight of her. After school, he hangs out with Dick. Surprisingly, he has fun and for a few hours he forgets to think about Veronica Mars.

Veronica, oddly, feels more in control than ever. Like the Logan-kissage was a warm-up to today’s work.

She hands in her homework, her paper is going to get an A+. She doesn’t fall asleep in any of her classes— a personal best. She meets up with Mandy, presents her plan, and Mandy, amazingly, wants in. She breaks up with Leo and because he’s a total mensch, he is still willing to assist in the takedown. Wallace is, as usual, her running back. Dog napping ring, dissolved. Justice served. All in time to get home and have her dad explain why Weevil wasn’t ever considered a suspect despite the grade A shadiness of his general activities regarding Lilly.

There’s nothing like a cleanly checked off to-do list.

Brushing her teeth, she remembers. She’d sort of avoided Logan. It hadn't been hard. He's not the sort who has experience looking for what doesn't want to be found. Veronica considers calling him then goes to bed.

Saturday: The Finer Points of Surveillance

The common opinion among his so-called gang is that Logan only notices what he wants to. Sure, the Caitlin fiasco hadn't helped much. She had never been someone he’d really thought about, even when she’d been around, talking about her teacup Yorkies or vacation plans to Greece. He had tried though, to be a good boyfriend, be attentive, take her out, remember things. And that burned more than anything else. All that effort for someone who couldn’t even cheat well enough to not be caught.

He doesn’t like being made a fool of by fools. Give him a worthy adversary though, then it’s on. Hyperfocus, c’est moi.

Logan sees Veronica Mars on his way to meet Enbom and turns his car right around. Follows her to the White Sands— 09er condos for those who can’t quite swing a multi-million dollar estate but still have some scratch. She gets out with her giant camera and he takes in every single detail. The stray hairs loose at her neck, her pigtails. The small strip of lower back visible every time she lifts her arms. The bump in her nose that she is always so self conscious of. The clean, decisive way she moves. Veronica disappears past the corner of Davies Boulevard and 4th Street. Rather than follow, he stays parked, figuring she has to return to her car eventually.

Veronica returns a couple of minutes later, her singular walk, brisk and purposeful. She keeps her arms close to her body, protective. Always looking around her, also protective. He thought that new move of hers was created in reaction to his antics last year but there she is, still doing it, even though he’s no threat. Who does she still need to fight?

She gets into her car and makes a phone call and he loses his train of thought. Starts thinking about her boots and her hair, the way it looked when she first chopped it off, all jagged and sharp to the touch. His porn preferences had changed in the past year or so, hadn't thought it had any connection to her but, upon review, the sudden predilection for combat boots and plaid kind of gave it away. That, and the look of a fight. Gone were the welcoming, pillow-lipped girls, replaced by ones who looked like they couldn’t decide whether it was anger or desire driving the action. Though that could just as easily be a description of himself nowadays.

Logan itches for confrontation and, he thinks, so does Veronica. He digs this about her. But they’re different, she’s different. Mostly he’s just angry. So angry, the target is the least important thing. Not Saint Veronica. There is a righteous fury to her that he lacks. She has targets, reasons. Who is it? Usually him. But sometimes others. Why? Only she seems to know.

His door opens, she jumps into the passenger seat. “So either this is stalking or you just like to brood in parked cars.”

Logan doesn’t startle easily, he’s got too much practice. “I was going to Jamba Juice and I happened to see this girl I know drive past like a bat out of hell.” He smiles at the birthmark on her clavicle and squints up at her after a beat. “Meatloaf lyrics aside, I thought she might need help.”

“And you thought you’d help her from afar?”

He puts his arm around her seat, adopts an air of diffidence.

“I didn’t want to interrupt her work. Maybe she’s tailing someone? Or on a stakeout. I figured I’d hang back. Keep an eye out in case anything went awry.”

Veronica smiles. “Let me give you some pointers. Step one in effective surveillance— don't drive an ostentatious vehicle.”

“Oh, I don't know. This is a wealthy neighborhood and only one of these kids is not like the others.”

He stares pointedly at her eyesore of a car. Veronica nods.

“You got me there.” She taps her chin. “Then again, which vehicle screams street parking and which one doesn't?”

He can’t resist that mouth. Logan ducks down fast and kisses her. Veronica Mars is slick, but not nearly slick enough to swallow that grin entirely.

“What's step two?” Logan reaches out and traces the line of her choker. He’s never been one for cheap jewelry but he loves the tough starkness of its texture against her pale, soft neck. Sunlight coming through the window creates a slender triangle patch of light alongside it: light, leather, skin. He wants to press his lips along the lines.

For a moment, she’s speechless, watching him like she can read his every soft porn, saxophone-scored thought. Then she turns forward, crossing her arms. “Step two. Don't wear patchwork leather.”

“Hey,” he says, genuinely affronted. “I just got this.”

The easy smile is back. She flicks at his sleeve. “This makes you look like the Holly Hobbie of NASCAR. Seriously, Logan, do you shop at the teen villain superstore? How to look imposing yet vaguely ridiculous: A primer.”

“A lot of girls like this jacket.”

“But Logan, I'm not like other girls. I mean, I’m different.” Her voice drips with honey as an evil grin lights up her face. God, she’s hot. Pop culture references AND total hotness. The 12 year-old he still is sometimes is beyond psyched.

He nods slowly. “Is this the part where you turn into a werewolf and eat me alive?”

Veronica's smile widens. “Well, if you play your cards right.”

“Okay.” Logan slips off his jacket. One shoulder drop at a time. He doesn't remove it entirely, just lets it slide down to his biceps, effectively pinning his own arms.

“What are you doing?” She seems slightly unnerved.

“Playing my cards right,” he says, with as much innocence as possible.

Veronica rolls her eyes and punches him on the arm. Then she turns her head so fast it gives him whiplash.

“Shit. Gotta run.” She exits at a fast clip towards her car and speeds off, the spot where she’d punched him still warm.

Logan pulls up his jacket and tosses his keys up and down, caught between exhilaration and disappointment. The feeling follows him home, past his father eyeing him warily, and Trina’s dull adenoidal whine. Sitting alone in the kitchen, two bites into his snack, his phone rings. Logan smiles.

“Miss me already?” he drawls smugly.

“Does your family have a membership to The Poseidon Country Club?”

“No, Neptune. Why?” He wipes his mouth and balls up the napkin onto his plate.

“I need to get into the Poseidon management offices and security isn't exactly lax. The gate is guarded by Centurions.”

There’s a sound of a car horn and a blare of salsa music.

“Where are you, Tijuana?”

“Er… no. You know what? Never mind. Thanks. I’ll-”

“Wait. I’ll get you in.”

“You will.”

He can hear the disbelief in her flat tone. “Sure, no sweat. I’ll tell them we're looking to switch or something. They've been after dad's business for years.”

“When can you be here?”

“Where's here?”

“By the Clifton Lane estates, right outside the Poseidon.”

“In ten.”

“Great. See you then.”

Her eyesore is parked by the side of the road and she's hopping in the Xterra before he's even said his planned line. She has a large trash bag and a bulky purse. Veronica rifles around it and takes out a few things. No hello, no greeting, just straight to business.

“Wow, I didn’t know you helped keep this stretch of Neptune clean.”

She ignores him, flips down the passenger side overhead mirror and uses a barrette to pin her bangs back.

“So what am I getting in return for this favor?”

Veronica slips off her shoes and eyes him coolly. “The knowledge that I'm sensually removing my pants in your car.”

She throws the bag in the back and follows it, hauling herself over, her slim legs sliding from the front seat to the back.

“Umm, what?” He turns around after what could only have been a small heart attack and gets hit with a pair of jeans.

“Did I say sensually? My bad, I meant frantically. Eyes in front, buddy. Use that imagination of yours.”

He flicks his gaze at her in the rear view mirror just in time to catch the obvious shimmy of something getting pulled over hips. A skirt? Down boy.

“Umm.” Logan stretches his hands against the steering wheel. “Not that this isn't an honor and a privilege but why didn't you handle this quick change in your car?”

“Mine doesn't have tinted windows.” Her tone is a bright DUH chirp.

A sweatshirt lands on his shoulder. It’s a dark green hoodie with something on it—  dragons? Cranes? Something with wings. Logan recognizes it, from what he’d called the Tough Ronnie Barbie collection. He’d made fun of her for it. It looks different on her now. Or rather, he sees her differently in it. Pretty and tough. A warning and a promise.

Veronica climbs back over the seat, she's wearing a tennis skirt, a polo shirt with the collar popped, and socks with those little balls of fluff on the backs. She slips on some white sneakers, undoes the barrette, and reapplies her lip gloss— a peachy wet sheen.

“It’s funny, but this car? It has doors.” Logan gestures floridly towards them. She flicks the mirror back up.

“I'm your girlfriend.”

He swallows. “Okay.”

“Amber's the name, tennis is my game.”

She pulls out a couple of rackets from her bag. They’re good ones, but dinged. Too scuffed to pass muster, too likely to raise red flags from some country club peon who thinks they’re high status by association.

“Those rackets are a joke. They scream poor. Besides we don't need any.”

Veronica narrows her eyes and angles her jaw.

“What? It’s true. They’ll have ones there we can use, you know. What’s the point in being a member if you can’t come empty-handed?” He takes them from her hands and puts them back in the garbage bag.

Logan leans towards her and she pulls back a little, her eyes widening. He brings his fingers to the back of her neck and pulls at the leather tie of her choker. He’s gentle, he doesn’t yank it, but two or three tugs and it comes undone.

“Doesn't quite work with the outfit. I’ll hold on to it for you.” Logan pats her cheerily on the knee and pockets the necklace. “Come on, Amber.”

Saturday: The Country Club Caper

Lying to the Poseidon Country Club director, Douglas “Call-me-Doug” McLean, is painfully easy. The guy is a fatuous windbag with the sensibility of a former used car salesman gone legit. She can practically see the dollar signs swirling in his eyes as he tells Logan about the facilities.

Veronica passes herself off as the airheaded consort. She swivels and leans on Logan’s arm, occasionally interrupting the Dougster’s spiel with vapid observations that almost make Logan crack, if his quick intakes of breath are anything to go by. He doesn’t break character though. Like a champ, he sticks to his agreed upon role of privileged customer, adding just the right amount of boredom to his voice. Though every now and then she catches him quicksilver-grinning at her like he’s impressed. And why not? She is impressive, dammit.

After a tour, they’re given rackets and they head out to the courts. The game gets competitive quickly for no reason. Veronica grunts angrily when she volleys and Logan engages. He used to beat her at this, but she is schooling him now. Her skirt flies up when she runs and it’s seemingly enough to keep him going with the charade. She can tell by the path of his eyes, continually traveling up and down her legs.

“What are we doing here anyway?” Logan wipes at his face. “And can I stop pretending to be into tennis? You know I fucking hate this. I mean, golf would’ve been the better choice.” He pantomimes a golf swing, then shields his eyes from the sun.

“I just needed in. You’re welcome to go.” She stops and spreads her arms in a magnanimous gesture. “The game was just a ruse to tire you out and let me do my thing.”

“Yeah, fat chance. I’m not leaving until you tell me what you’re up to.”

“Nothing you need to worry your pretty little head about.”

“You think I’m pretty?”

She regards him. Tall, dark, handsome. “Yeah.”

Logan smiles, swings the racket up in the air, and catches it neatly. “What do you say we tesseract this situation? Where do you need to be?”

“Whichever office they keep membership records in. I’m pretty sure it’s the one adjacent to your new pal Doug’s. If you think you can improvise along to the extremely convincing fainting spell I’m going to be having, then I think we can do this in twenty.”

“Let’s make it fifteen.”

"Deal." She extends her hand for him to shake and he looks down at it delightedly. She tells herself that it's the proper gesture for agreement, the sealing of the deal, sportsmanship, even. But really it's the spark.

Doug’s assistant is ever so helpful. She makes them comfortable and takes off in search of some Evian and velvet slippers. Veronica leaps immediately into action, reaching into Logan’s pocket and making him jump.

“Sorry, this skirt doesn’t have pockets. So I snuck these into yours.” Veronica dangles a small set of keys in front of him. “Quick thinking back there.”

Logan goes to stand by the door, casting a glance her way. “Thanks. I’ve always wanted to aid and abet.”

“Today’s your lucky day then.” She peers at the numbers on the lock and wields the ring of tiny keys, matching the number on the lock to a particular key, and putting it in. The lock turns with a dull, satisfying thunk. These places never update their file cabinets when they renovate. Veronica tut-tuts to herself and pulls out the drawer, flicking through the files with the dexterity necessitated by countless other such searches. “Bingo.”

She whips out a small camera from her tiny purse, and snaps away at the contents of the folder— records of the not-so-poor deadbeat’s payment of the Poseidon’s extravagant annual membership deposit, as well as a myriad selection of other insane monthly charges. In cash. Thanks, asshole.  She bites her tongue in concentration. That’s three bills and some much needed repairs on her LeBaron, all in one score. Dad’s going to be so proud.

“So what did this guy do?” Logan is suddenly looming over her shoulder.

“Pretended to be something he wasn’t.” Veronica elbows him back. “Keep an eye on the door, nosy.”

He resumes his lookout. “Is that a super spy camera?”

“Yes, I got it at the super spy store.”

“You should take me sometime.”

“Where?” She examines an invoice. Beverage fees?

“To the super spy store.”

“Why? Are you planning a change in career track?” Another paid invoice. Man, the towel charges alone in this place… what a racket.

“I didn’t know I had a career track.”

Veronica raises an eyebrow. “Being idly rich.”

“Right. I forgot about that.” He rubs the back of his hair. A tell, she knows. He’s frustrated.

“Well, there’s always the family biz, Logan. I thought your performance back there was top notch. You really seemed worried about my health. Were those actual tears?”

“Pass. I’ll stick to being idle.”

Veronica puts the file back exactly where it was and locks the cabinet. “Come on. Let’s blow this popsicle stand.”

She takes his hand and he pulls her in close. They walk through the club, towards the entrance. A valet hands off Logan’s car keys.

Veronica maintains her swooning maiden cover, holding her head until they’re well past the gates. He stops halfway across town, pulls over and kisses her like he’s running out of air. She laughs, and her laughter grows wilder with every pull of his collar.

“Should I take you home?” he whispers against her neck. She feels naked without her choker.

“Nah,” she mouths against his Adam's apple. “Let’s go for a walk. Somewhere secluded. Lennox.”

Logan pulls back and looks in the direction of his glove compartment, swallows. Then towards his change caddy. A few quarters and a single peppermint candy.

“Okay, but I have to make a stop first,” he says.

She narrows her eyes.

“Just food. I’ll be fast. I promise.”

Saturday afternoon: The Lennox State Park Picnic

Neptune has plenty of parks, but only one that offers semi-reclusive hiking and is also the least likely place for them to encounter anyone that they know. Logan pulls up to the near-empty parking lot and, this time when she scoots back to change into her jeans, he leaves the car. Veronica watches him as he kicks stones sending dust flying. His hair sticks up and glints gold in the sun, his vanity suddenly adorable instead of ridiculous.

There’s something so unsettling about all of this. No, not unsettling. Destabilizing. She knows him— he is someone she knows, used to know well, or thought she did— and with every skip kick hop, it comes a little closer to how things used to be. The practical joker, the boyfriend, the fool. But it’s not quite right. It’s new too. She wants to climb all over him and kiss him shy, draw out that bashful nervousness that she’s never seen before.

Also, she doesn’t hate him, not anymore, not really. She doesn’t know when that changed.

Veronica joins him on the path. She puts her hands in her pockets and shrugs. “So whatcha got there?” She’d seen him go into the store but hadn’t seen what he got. The smell of it is delicious and her stomach gives what she hopes is a ladylike growl.

“Things to keep you satisfied.” He waggles his eyebrows.

She smiles at the sunset instead of his face. “Yum.”

“Let’s go, Li’l Sarlacc.”

“I’d shove you but you’re carrying the food.”

“Phew. We wouldn’t it to bruise.”

They walk quietly upwards with matching small smiles and come across a couple of hikers along the way. One, an older woman who barely glances at them, walking three alert looking Irish Setters who sniff and huff at Logan’s bag. Another, further on, also a woman, tall, slender, dressed in all black expensive looking running clothes, a baseball hat pulled low over her face, sunglasses and headphones probably connected to nothing but effective as another signifier to not engage.

Logan looks back at her. “She looks familiar.”

“An actress?”

He squints and shakes his head. “Maybe.”

There’s a spot near the top of the hill where Veronica leads them away from the main path, down another, overgrown, but with the telltale smoothness of many years of footfall underneath the brush. Several minutes later, long and unpromising enough to make the average hiker turn around, the path narrows and curves, opening up to a shady promontory. Neptune and the Pacific in the distance, wind-bent pines overhead, their needles thick underfoot, crunching with every one of their steps. She’d been here before with her mom and her dad, back when her mother did this kind of thing. Logan breathes in deeply. He looks soft, different. Veronica fights a brief surge of panic. 

She breathes. This is him. This is actually him. But don’t drop your guard entirely. Remember.

Logan grins, bouncing slightly on the heels of his feet. “Here?”

“Here.”

He puts down the bag and pulls out a blanket. Veronica lifts both of her eyebrows. “When was the last time one of your maids washed that thing? Should I be afraid?”

“I uh, keep it in my car. Sometimes I like to sit on the beach at night. I haven’t used it though… It’s clean. But you can sit on my jacket if you w-”

“No, that’s okay.”

Veronica takes it from his hands and spreads it out on the ground. It’s soft. She smoothes out the corners more than she needs to and sits down. She looks around, anywhere but him, aiming for casual. “So. You said there was food?”

Logan kneels down next to her, taking out a long wrapped sandwich and a couple of Poland Springs. “It’s a meatball sub. Acceptable?”

“Very. But where’s yours?”

He grins and kisses her quickly. She laughs when he wipes at his mouth.

“Lipgloss.”

“Lipgloss. I reapplied in the car.”

“Not that I mind… it’s-” He licks his lips.

“Sticky.”

“Yeah.”

Logan and Veronica laugh. The laughter of post-kissing, pre-kissing, and all kissing. The kind where you are waiting until the next time but not really sure what to do until then. The sub is delicious, they eat it quietly, sneaking glances at each other. Afterwards, they kiss again and that is also quiet. He pulls her choker out of his pocket and helps her put it back on. Help she doesn't exactly need but also doesn't discourage. His fingers keep returning to it, the knot at the back, and each time she has to remind herself not to maul him.

They lie on the blanket, her head on his chest, holding hands. The quiet periodically interrupted by cell phone buzz he chooses to ignore (No one important is looking for me, Logan whispers) and the flutter of birds looking for real estate to call their own. He runs his hands in her hair and the sight of his fingers working their way through her strands is both familiar and terrifying. Exciting. New and not-new. A bird cries, the sound somewhere between a coo and a sob.

“Mourning doves.”

She pushes off of him onto her elbows. “What?”

“Mourning like sad, not day.”

Veronica raises her brow sky-high and points to her face. “This is my don’t-believe-you expression. Memorize it.”

“So suspicious.” He tucks her hair behind her ear.

“Oh, and you’ve given me so many reasons not to be?”

“Yeah.” Logan looks away, stretching his arms overhead. His shirt lifts up, exposing his belly, the reddish-brown trail of hair there. Another dime-sized scar. Veronica knows there are questions she should be asking but can’t seem to move her lips to form words.

“I was obsessed with birds when I was a little kid. I had binoculars and everything.” He laughs, the line of his neck open and vulnerable.

“Birds?” Her skepticism remains, but is softened somewhat.

“What could be cooler than something that can fly?”

The wind is dry and warm and smells like sagebrush and wildflowers. Right here, away from the world, everything is fine, nothing has changed. Veronica places her head back on his chest, listening.

“Veronica. I’m sorry. I fucked up. Last year. I fucked up.” His murmur fills her ears, the fast, frightened rush of his heart.

She shuts him up by scooting up to kiss him again. She murmurs shhh around his lips when he tries to move them to talk.

“Veronica-”

“It’s not real. I choose what is real and that time wasn’t real.”

“It was real.” His eyes are different this close.

“No. Not-real. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.”

She kisses him, he kisses her. Veronica touches his shoulders and arms this time, with care. New skin, different feel. The elbow doesn’t hit where she expects it to.

“What are you doing tomorrow?”

“Hanging out with my dad. You?”

“Wishing I was with you.”

“Aaaaw.” Veronica crosses her eyes and pokes him in the ribs.

“Ouch. I’m serious. Some appraisers from Sotheby’s are coming by to estimate the value of my mother’s art collection, furniture, effects, blah, blah, blah.”

Her voice hushes. “How have you been?”

“How do you think? Smashing.” He pulls his sleeves over his hands, avoiding her eyes.

The return of Logan’s flat affect, that’s never a good sign.  Veronica has nothing to say, she is all out of comforting words.

He digs in his pocket and unwraps a candy, popping it in his mouth. The overhead light filtering through the trees renders him as beautiful as a painting. There’s a small smear of tomato sauce in the corner of his mouth, she leans down and wipes it with her thumb. He turns and kisses the inside of her wrist. It tickles. She leans down and licks into his open mouth, touching the peppermint candy that’s in there. It’s sugary and minty and she steals it right from his tongue, smiling with the red and white piece in her teeth. His hand slides up right above her hip, to her ribcage, tracing the bones and when they kiss again, he steals it back, spit and sugar and the distant smell of the sea.

She sits up and straddles him, ready to move this along, and registers quickly that she is a) sitting on his wrist and b) that isn’t his wrist. Veronica yelps and slides off of him. Logan rolls over onto his stomach, face down into the blanket. Seconds later, he looks up, his face scrunched up in mortification.

“Sorry.”

Veronica’s mouth hangs open. “Noooooo. I’m sorry. I don't know why I-”

“I was trying to think about hockey. Didn’t work.”

“Ummm, yeah. I got that. You like me, you really like me.”

“I’m usually much slicker than this, I feel like—”

“A virgin? Touched for the very first time?”

He winces. “Kind of?”

Logan looks utterly guileless and Veronica stifles the urge to look for hidden cameras. This is something she wanted, something she wants, but the moment is gone. She shakes her head and slips her hoodie on.

“Come on, Dirk Diggler. I need to head home in time for dinner and you have to drive me back to my car.”

“Go on ahead. I’ll be right behind you.”

“Not with that thing, you ain’t. Up and at ‘em.”

They fold the blanket and pack up their trash. Walking back to the car, Logan picks some California poppies and holds them up to his face. He beams, their yellow light reflecting on his cheeks.

“Remember?”

“Yeah.”

They grin at one another. He throws one at her. She throws it back. Soon their hair is covered in yellow petals and the familiar buttery smell is pure nostalgia, sad and bittersweet.

“We had more fun times together than not, right?” Logan asks, putting a somewhat-intact flower behind his ear.

Veronica frowns momentarily, then schools her face to blank. By the time she’s thought of a reply, it’s too late, and Logan being Logan, moves on from it. She watches him leap his way down to the main path, arms outstretched.

Sunday: Scheduling a Consultation with your Private Eye

They don’t see each other on Sunday but she calls him that night. Tells him her dad had to go somewhere and before he can run out the door and head over to her place, she says, “Don’t even think it, Logan. I have work to do.”

That stern voice she uses should not get him going but it does.

“Okay. How about I hire you?” Logan conducts unheard music with his index finger, spinning energetically on his desk chair. He puts his feet up on his bed, crossing them at the ankle.

“Hire me for what?”

“For a case.”

“What case? The case of your unexpected boner?”

He smiles slowly. “It’s a rather delicate matter, Veronica. Can I schedule a consultation?”

“Sure, how about we meet in my office tomorrow at noon?”

He hadn't expected such a quick yes. “I have a class at 12:15. And, I don’t know why I said that because I so don’t care.”

“Sure you do, you big faker. We’ll make it a quickie.” She laughs. “Forget I said that.”

“Uh, I won’t.”

Logan listens to her laugh and closes his eyes at the pleasure of it. “Wait. Where’s your office?”

“Ladies room, by the east hall.”

“Oh, yeah, I’ve seen you conduct business there before.”

“Good, so you know the deal. Put the sign up and wait for me.”

“What sign?”

Veronica sighs. “The out-of-order sign. Go there and put it up on the door and wait for me. You can find it behind the utility shelf in the third stall.”

“Okay. Just wait for you in the girls bathroom? Am I getting Punk’d?”

She pfffts. “No, but you just gave me a great idea. How do I contact Asht-”

“I’ll be there.”

“Excellent. See you tomorrow. And remember, just play it cool, boy. No flirty looks, compliments, or flowers.”

“Real cool.”

Logan doesn’t dream of Veronica that night. Truth be told, he doesn’t really remember what he dreams about. It’s abstract, shapes, sounds, feelings, and when he wakes up in the morning he feels hopeful. Logan doesn’t dress for her, he doesn’t really know what she likes yet. But he brushes his teeth for way too long.

At breakfast he smiles at Trina, and she scowls back, pushing her plate of fruit away from herself as if he’d poisoned it. He grabs an apple off of the table and blows an air kiss her way. He meets up with Dick and half-listens to his stoner bro chatter about gnarly waves, his mind much closer to home.

He fiddles with the pocket knife he found the other day in his mom’s room, a long lost relic from when he thought he wanted to be a Boy Scout. He’s floating on air, he is air. Nothing can touch him.