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| Scene Title | Hello, Stranger |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Logan and Bebe have a conversation. Or start to. After a musical interlude, they move upstairs, and they both get their fix. |
| Date | January 8, 2009 |
This building used to be a dance club a decade or more ago, and was later outfitted into a strip bar up until the bomb hit New York City and Staten Island became a refuge of the panicked people of New York City. After this neighborhood fell to ruin, the strip bar went out of business and was sold easily to a young man from Britain with similar but less legitimate intentions for the place. And so it became The Happy Dagger, a brothel that makes no claim to be otherwise, and a bright spot on a street with similar venues, lit up with lights of pink, red and orange, with a neon sign in cursive print reading its name.
Two strapping bouncers allow people through after a quick identity check, down a dark corridor wherein people seem to move in and out continually. The front room is crowded, more nightclub than brothel. There's a bar in the corner, and stages of different shapes and heights create obstacles, along with a quieter lounge area separated only by saloon style doors. Women dance aloofly or mingle with the clientele, marked as employees of the Happy Dagger by their costuming. There is a Middle Eastern bent in style, with warm colours and lights, women with Cleopatra eyes, wearing more silks than sequins, decked in Hollywood-exotic stage jewelry. The insincerity of this place is palpable. There's spiral staircase at the other end of the large area, a structure swathed in red light and eye-catching.
Upstairs is a catacomb of dark hallways and bedrooms of various sizes. It seems less like a strip club and more like the brothel it boasts to be, with more elaborate interior design. Curtains of silk and chiffon, incense making the air hazy, the walls papered with golds and reds. Women linger in the hallways to catch the strays who come up here alone and guide them to appropriate rooms.
Breaking the illusion of decadence is the occasional security camera hidden in the corner. This place is not without it's safety measures, beyond the bouncers. You may also notice that the man enjoying a drink in the corner hasn't gotten up in a while, and another prowling around outside hasn't moved from this street. The security is kept discreet and unobtrusive, but it certainly is there.
The music is never on very loud, but it's always there, playing from speakers as hidden as the security cameras. The point is not to dance, but to watch, to display. Logan is doing no such thing at the moment, seated by the bar with a glass now emptied of the gin and tonic he'd been enjoying, surveying his little Rome with only glances of assessment than appreciation for the wares for sale. This is, after all, his normal.
In contrast to the garish interior and those accessorised to match it, Logan is dressed sedately in a blue pinstripe suit and a black shirt with the top button undone, silken black tie loosened though still draped about his neck. A business meeting has been concluded, leaving the brothel owner alone at the bar of black metal and glass that reflects neon reds and yellows, but before he retreats up the red lit staircase in a similarly dimly lit room of his own, he turns his glass towards the bartender in a silent request for a refill. Obligingly, she tips the bottle of gin to allow the harsh liquid to drain into the bottom of the crystal glass, only ceasing when he rights it once more.
He's not typically a drinker, but as they say - when in Rome. Logan offers her a smile and a lift of his glass, before draining a good mouthful of poison-tasting liquor.
Voyeurism. They do that here. With cameras tucked into every corner and otherwise concealed in every room, it's the one piece of action offered for free to everyone from management down; though, the higher up you are, the more you get to see, both figurative and literally. However, unlike most of the lookie-loos come to sit uncomfortably close to unfamiliar crotches or the average geek of the street who hasn't yet got the guts to go for the gold and buy himself a girl — they're all playing look but don't touch — there's one set of big brown eyes that has been plastered on to Logan's back ever since he found the time to saunter out of the office.
There's a sweet young thang making her way through the crowd wearing next to nothing accessorized with a bobbed pink wig and a pair of those clear hooker heels that only strippers and whores are officially authorized to even think about putting on. Bebe insinuates herself next to Logan at the bar and tilts her chin just slightly to the side in order to deliver a sly, "Hello, stranger."
Wow, it's early in the evening. But ….there's a drunk guy. And a skinny guy with him. Drunk guy has a bottle of water in one hand, which Felix paid for. Fel's already had to warn away more than one hopeful predator with his Walther, and now he's desperately looking for somewhere, anywhere to sober the Sicilian up, without them getting robbed or murdered. Which is why the pair ducks into the Dagger, not that they particularly look like they're in the market for a soiled dove. Fel is trying to explain to the guard at the door. "I just want a room for a few hours. No, you….I'll pay you the going rate for one of the ladies, but you don't actually have to put a girl in it. No, I don't want a boy, either. I understand there's a place down the block that caters to those tastes. No, I don't want to fuck him, either. I just….here?" He offers a single folded bill. A Grant, it looks like. "For your trouble, and my incoherence. Water and aspirin."
There's a third presence that enters into the club with the two men - the drunkard and the one who seems out of place - though it's not one that's at all obvious. A parasitic shadow that's indistinguishable from Felix's own follows the bob and weave of his movements along the floor of the brothel, Cardinal remains a silent, watchful presence. If one easily distracted at the moment, because, well, this is a place made for distractions, and he's as vulnerable as any man. Even if he doesn't technically possess genitalia right now.
He doesn't have the ability to sense when one of his employees is approaching, or when they're staring at his back with such intention, but he'd certainly appreciate it. As it stands, Logan is taken a little off-guard when he's addressed, although it doesn't entirely show, simply looking towards her with a flash of pale green eyes before giving her an easy smile. Another bite of gin is down, the liquid lukewarm thanks to his glass losing its chill, and the drink is set aside on the smooth bar. "Don't you look pretty," he says, London accent hiked up a class or two especially for her. He keeps his hands to himself, which is more than can be said for most of the other men wandering around in this room. Everyone has a currency. Even the pimps. "Shouldn't you be too busy to talk to the likes of me?" The commotion out front the Dagger isn't something he's alerted to just yet, security keeping their distance politely - because while they may just be escaping the owner's attention right this second, the walls have eyes when it comes to the Happy Dagger.
"This is so wrong," Teo says, his head listed almost onto his back where it had stayed throughout the walk through the door in order to stare up at the signage that brightens as the sky cedes to darkness.
"This is so, sssso fucking wrong. I haven't been to one of these since I was like, fifteen fucking years old." Possibly, his sense of wrong is slightly turned around or flipped over, but at least he spares Felix the trouble of having to drag him in scarlet-faced against the dig of his heels.
Alcohol and cold have already rubbed sanguine color into the apples of his cheeks. Apparently immune to the scrutiny of the bouncer, he slops another mouthful of water down and leans blearily onto Felix's shoulder. "I've met shipwrecks with more subtlety than you, signor."
"Thank you," comes the cotton candy-haired girl's automatic chime of a reply. She still smiles and delivers with sincerity, even if it's more force of habit than genuine acceptance of the compliment. Bebe prances out a practiced pout as she asks, "I'm not allowed to stop by and say 'hi' to my favori— " Hold that thought. While Logan might not necessarily be hip to the commotion that's just stumbled across their threshold, Bebe's afforded a slightly better view and she can't help but crane her neck slightly in order to see what the slurring fuss is about. She bounces a look from Logan to the corridor that leads to the front door and back again. Lookit, she says with those big brown eyes.
"How was I supposed to be subtle?" says Fel, turning that rather hawkish stare on Teo. "Hey, this s a nicer place than…." Not finishing that sentence where other people are. "Than you've likely slept lately," he amends, in haste. "Did you not notice the goons out there stalking us? I'm not Mr. Wizard, Teo. You shoot me, I die just like everyone else. And look, you get to sleep it off in this Arabian Nights fantasy, if you want. Hell, I'll buy you a girl? Do you even like girls?" Not quite chattering, but pretty close.
The counterpoint to the argument about subtlety, Felix's shadow merely lays there on the floor attentively. More or less, anyway.
Let the flirting commence. Or rather, let it hitch over something dividing her attention. Logan's brow lowers, but he takes his cue well - looking over one shoulder, he observes the drunken duo— actually a trio, but not that he can see such a fact— and sneers a little in disdain. "No one I've seen before," he says in a light tone of voice, turning back towards the bar but only to swipe up his glass and drain it dry once and for all. In a lithe movement, he gets up from his seat at the bar and offers Bebe his hand - nothing will come of the touch but simple, undiluted contact, but hey, something else could come from it. The promise is always there. "Shall we go see if they've got themselves lost?" And see if he can't offer them the prize in a pink wig. Not that the girls don't sell themselves, a few already circling in distant judgment as to what this would be worth, but the equation makes sense.
Despite the slight jerk of startlement in Teo's shoulder, what would normally be as noisily flustered a reaction as one could expect from a good (if not great) Catholic boy, his sensibilities are apparently inhibited enough that he can answer in an overly reasonable voice. "I like mmmmost things I can get for free. But.
"I don't think I can do anything right now. I had a shitload to drink, 'case you di'nt notice." It's taken some doing, hydration, walking, and staring down the crap-caliber barrels of wannabe-death, but he's emerged out of his stupor enough to string multiple sentences together. "You should've put me on a ferry to Manhattan 's what you shoulda done.
"Buuuut it's too late now. I'll get 'nto trouble with the fucking cops. Ha. I'm smarter'n you even when I'm smashed out of my fucking head." Of course, Teo couldn't have volunteered this recommendation earlier. He raises the arm around Felix's shoulder, angling a long forefinger down Felix's cheek to point at the pink coming toward them. Look.
An extended opportunity for hand-holding to be had with John Logan is not something a girl has the heart to pass up… especially not if she's done it before and caught him on a 'good' day. Bebe beams, slipping slowly into that sunny and stunning smile she rarely so often wears outside of these walls; it's put on both for her boss's benefit and in the hopes that the ambiguously -gay- stray duo who just plunged headlong into the meat market might manage to lay eyes on something worth buying. However, before that can make it over to the door, there's a lanky bleach-blonde that's reached out to snag Logan by the arm. She's whispering something to the pair in an urgent tone before she goes crawling her way back into the crowd in an attempt to hide from what very well might be her 'third strike'.
While Bebe remains reluctant to relinquish her grip on Logan's hand, the situation suddenly calls for something a little more hospitable than a pretty smile and a vacant stare. "Here," she says, slinking up to Teo's unoccupied side in order to snake a thin arm around the younger man's waist. "…let me help you with that, officer." Oh hi, Felix. Made.
Fel eyes Bebe with displeasure, which is swiftly transmuted into that dry amusement. "Your radar's very good," he says, apparently not having noticed that blonde. "It's been a long time since I worked Vice, though. And this is hardly my jurisdiction. Retired, in fact," he says, hastily. Teo gets an ungentle nudge. "I….just need a room. For a little while." Bebe gets a looking-over that's critical, rather than lascivious. "Little Shahrazad, you can tell us a few stories while he sobers up. Won't even muss that pretty pink hair, and I'll pay you for your time same as usual." He looks to her, then up at the bouncer.
All of a sudden there's plenty of interest for the shadow to soak up; information about the identity of the man he's attached himself to tops the list, followed shortly thereafter by a pink-wigged little piece of T&A in next to nothing. It's definitely shaping up to be an interesting night for Cardinal, even if he's just a voyeur right now.
Once told of the fact this is, indeed, a man of the law, or was, Logan's amicable vibe frosts up a little, letting go of Bebe's hand and hanging back for a moment as she goes to help the drunken one of the pair. Logan's hands find their way into his own jacket pockets, watching Felix talk to her, before stepping on over with more authority than one of the customers here and less intimidation than the burly men he pays to watch the happenings. A judgmental glance from Felix to Teo, one that reads, 'there are hotels for this sort of thing, lads', but he's going to be nice enough. "A room," he repeats, voice cutting through by way of introduction. "Well we certainly have those, with all the trimmings. Are we having a good evening, gentlemen?"
It may lend Felix's disguise as not-an-officer some credibility that Teo is, without room for doubt, genuinely drunk. Barring that, at least Felix apparently isn't very good at what he does. Ought to be reassuring. Albeit not for Teodoro himself, who has recovered enough of his faculties to register that the words that accompany the woman who's insinuated herself on his other side are bad, even as she smells really good.
Teo's surprise is not manufactured. He turns his head toward Felix and leans away as if to get a better look, and his brow creases deeper when the FBI's boy decides they're staying anyway. He's fairly paranoid, even as terrorists go, and even when drunk, now beginning to wonder how life around Ivanov is survivable. No wonder the guy played dead. Of course, being drunk, his natural conclusion to that is: Oh well.
"Si." He swings his gaze up to Logan. Is rewarded with the revelation that his eyeballs no longer swerve three feet past their desired mark when he does that. Just a few inches. He turns up the corners of his mouth, a gallant smile for everybody involved. "How about you, England?"
A coy look is tossed casually over her shoulder as Bebe regards 'England' for a moment before cleverly coming back with, "He's not for sale." More's the pity, right, boys? Sure, she knew that wasn't what Teo was asking. She got it wrong on purpose. So says the wink she punctuates her statement with just shortly before amending, "I am, though." Big shock there, eh?
However, after a moment, her nose wrinkles ever so slightly and she says, "Of course, if you two'd rather be alone…" Is she actually trying to worm her way out of some sort of sordid threesome with these two now? "…my room's available, even if you'd rather I wasn't in it. Rates are reasonable, too." The fact that she's doing it within earshot of Logan, too, begs the question — why? Except that, you know, one of these guys is blazingly drunk and that usually doesn't make for anything akin to 'fun tiems' for anyone. She's a real trooper, too, volunteering to have her hooker hutch almost certainly thrown up in. So, okay, maybe she doesn't wanna watch that…
…lest she be shanked for shirking a sale, though, she does pitch what might be her best effort at a compromise. "Between you and me, I make a pretty good nurse… got the little hat and everything… and my bedside manner is extremely gentle…"
"Lovely," says Felix, hastily, to Logan. He can't help but give Bebe one of those too-broad grins. "Done and done," he says, blithely. "Which ever you'd prefer. Or, we can pay you for your time, and just watch," He nods past her at the dancers on stage. Just…sanctuary. Please. He's still mostly supporting Teo's weight, and glances back over his shoulder, as if he expected their pursuers to come pounding on the door. And the shifting crowd moves to momentarily expose the blonde who ratted them out. "Lyudmilla, princess," he says, with a faintly mournful air. "I see you there. Couldn't stay away from the life, huh?" She'd clearly love to give Fel a thorough cursing, but forces a plastic smile, instead. "You know it," she says, in her accented English.
As Bebe manages the two men, Logan mostly watches her, the corner of his mouth lifted in a half-smile of knowing amusement, but she's not wrong— it's becoming obvious that all they want is a room and perhaps to no longer be standing in the middle of the garish dance hall. At the little exchange between the ex-cop and one of his whores, Logan's eyes narrow a little, turning to study her for a second, before returning his attention back to the clients. Bored of this show, that much is clear. "You're easy to please, aren't you," he says to Felix. "Allow Bebe," a tilt of his head to the bewigged woman in indication, "to accommodate your needs and show you to your room. Whatever's clever." His hand goes out to touch her elbow, adding quietly, "Have Vivienne see to our guests and their wallets once they're done with the room. I'll be in my office if you need anything more."
And he's done, Logan lifts his hand in something like a dismissive wave. "Good evening," and he adds to Teo, "and feel better." Which is code for: don't puke on the chiffon. Logan turns on his heel to head for the spiral staircase across the room ahead of them, waiting only for last second questions and comments. They don't have a suggestion box, after all.
Something like a complaint aborts off Teo's face when Felix takes over answering that whole thing about Logan not being on sale and the rooms or whatever. He's only half tracking what's going on in his immediate proximity, his attention essaying onward into the distance of figures gyrating to music, before it goes translucent, dissipates into some further reach of time or spatial memory unavailable for anyone here to follow.
He comes to when spoken to, squeezing out a blink of his eyes. What. Fuck; he's relapsing into that other zone. Full of bleach and piecemeal corpses. "You shoul' go do — other shit, signorina," he says, suddenly, glancing down his shoulder at Bebe. "'Least for a couple hours." Saying so requires about as much pain tolerance as kicking through a phonebox window to get at some asshole thug with a screwdriver, or so he recalls, but such as it were—
Teo knows just enough about these establishments to remember about discreet photography and realize that a few questions or, you know, someone reading the fucking newspaper could blow Felix's cover.
A lot. If he didn't have to pee for completely other reasons, he'd probably be in a state to do so out of horrified discomfort at this whole absurdity. "You should go, too. Soon," he tells the Russian, clapping a rough hand atop his head, pointing a deliberate blue eye into Felix's, a crooked grin. "Give me the money. I'll pay you back." It sounds beatific. Mostly because he isn't thinking that far ahead.
Bebe blinks almost audibly. There's barely a braincell to rub together between these two but it says something when it's the intoxicated one spouting more sense than the one that's sober. Then again, the sober one's hip to buying in, so she frankly doesn't give a fuck what Teo has to say about much of anything right now save something shy of 'I don't feel so well…' or maybe 'Changed my mind, bend over, kthx.' Instead, she stands there for a moment, hearkening to Logan's murmured message before casting her wide-eyed gaze after him in retreat. She then lends her less than suitable height to assist in toddling Teo toward the stairs and says with a waxing smile, "Right this way…"
Let's go, faggots! March! Bebe's pace isn't precisely rushed — because, let's face it, no one could ever rightly run in those hooker heels and keep both ankles unbroken — but she's sort of hoping to make it up the stairs and out of the room before Teo turns green and unfurls his technicolor stomach contents all over her brand new satin bedspread. Plus, there's the added incentive of as close to an open invitation to join Logan in his office as she's apt to get without exhibiting brutally bad behavior. With a bare shoulder slung in the doorway and a hand hung on the hardest knob within reach — that being the doorknob — she offers a sweet, "I'll be back in about an hour to check in on you two." That's what they call in the business 'fair warning'. Now, if she comes back in an hour and they're both fast asleep with a pile of puke on the floor… that's gross… and she just might have to have Viv charge 'em extra for that. However, if she comes back and they're both testing the box spring integrity of her bed… well then, that's pervy… and she just might have to join them. Occupational hazard.
Fel is as agreeable as a tourist with way too many traveler's checks. And lucky Bebe will no doubt find Teo fast asleep between doses of bottled water, and Fel sitting idle. Apparently he really meant it about wanting a room.
Hey, no, no, don't brush off that particularly delicious piece of feminine flesh! Cardinal glares up at Teo as he finds the capacity to be logical and right-minded in his current state, not that it's at all visible. Oh, the shadow'll get even with you for this. You'll all pay!
This scene coincides with Teo, Felix and Cardinal's other scene at Dead Men Talking.
The Happy Dagger: Logan's Office
This place is office by name only - there certainly isn't a desk in sight, let alone a filing cabinet. It's decorated almost the same as any other room in terms of colours and decadence, with quality thrown in for good measure. The walls are painted a dark red with warmer golden trimmings, and layers of chiffon surround and cover the one window in the room so that only the lights of the outside world make hazy spots on the rich fabric. Hung upon the walls are paintings, likely expensive ones, depicting erotic scenarios and characters.
A couple of couches provide areas of comfort, some conventional, others more of the old Greco-Roman style designed to recline in rather than sit, and a small round coffee table with elaborate patterns etched into the wood boasts a perhaps ornamental hookah, although it's clearly seen use. The wooden floor is mostly covered by a large zebra striped rug, soft on bare feet and kept immaculate. An antique teatray is pushed into the corner, and holds a stunning array of fine liquor and crystal glasses. Next to it, an antique writing desk, although there's no chair near it and doesn't seem to hold anything, although the locked drawers may have purpose.
Despite it being called an office, this room seems more to cater to luxury and relaxation than business, although business occurs here regularly. Just not as much as pleasure.
A third lamp is switched on, a third point of light within a room so dim that it may as well blend in with everyone other room of the brothel. The only thing that sets it apart is the lack of a bed, and the one thing that sets the luxurious couch Logan is currently perched on from a bed is the lack linens. He's abandoned his jacket and tie into some corner of the room, seated on the edge of the backless sofa, back curled, elbows against his knees as he puts the flame of a lighter to the end of a cigarette. The smoke casts a certain haze through the sparse light, not all acrid nicotine - spices as well, something slightly sweeter than the usual.
Music from downstairs can be heard through the wooden floor (and by extension, zebra rug), drowning out the sounds of city life from the world outside. No police sirens, however. There is a conspicuous lack of those. Logan is already moving to recline when he hears footsteps at his door, and instead, braces a hand against the couch and waits for the door to open or for someone to knock.
Bebe does both. Simultaneously. She's talented like that. Two bare knuckles knock the first part of 'Shave and a Haircut' against the dark grain of the door before she dares peek her pink-wigged head in from 'round the other side, allowing half of the downstairs racket to filter in over her bare shoulders and babydoll face. "Hey," she says, slowly slipping back into a slyly-appointed smile. "Mind if I come in?"
Logan shakes his head in immediate answer as to whether he minds her intrusion, hand up to steal the cigarette away out from between his teeth, sighing out a good lungful of the spiced smoke. The cigarette is set into a ceramic ashtray within arms reach to die a slow death. "That was quick," he jests, hands bracing back against the couch, tilting back casually as he watches her, a slow gaze moving from her eyes, right down, down, down to where her ankles are strapped into those precarious shoes. "Can't blame you. One was looking a bit green about the gills."
Invitation granted, Bebe inches into the room with a surprising quickness before leaning back against the door as it closes more quickly under her weight and with hands hidden behind her barely-covered backside, palms pressed flat against the wood. "I told them I'd be back in about an hour," she explains, giving him both her time table of 'availability' as well as attempting to exemplify the fact that she's actually on the job and not just shamelessly hovering around him in the hopes of catching her fix. (Even though that is, more or less, exactly what she's doing.)
She slinks over toward the divan with a gait that only seems to have recently grown less awkward than when she first picked it up a few months ago; walking in hooker heels, even across short distances, without breaking your neck is a lot harder than it looks, yo. Bebe boldly steals a seat right next to Logan and then bats her falsely extended eyelashes at him while wearing half a grin, "If he gets sick on my bedspread, will you buy me a new one?"
"Mm. I'll buy you whatever you like," Logan says, an easy lie and an exaggeration if Bebe ever heard one, but we're playing coy, here. His hand lifts up, about as clean and neat as a man's hand can get short of a manicure, and his fingertips brush down the slope of Bebe's jaw. It's subtle, chemical happiness never something to sharply spike into someone's system, because we're also playing secrets too, but it begins to warm blood, to tickle at one's resolve, like a dial beginning to be turned. "Come to share my company, then, while your room's taken?" he says, accent making every word deliberate sounding, precise. In the dim light, his eyes seem particularly green at this close range, bordering towards supernatural, but maybe they're just striking. His hand moves from her face, by an inch. "How was your dinner with Jack?"
Bebe's become accustomed to lies, at least in so far as Logan's concerned, but they've never really been the wounding sort and so she doesn't care. It's coy. It's sport. He's better at it than she is, though. More experienced. A pro. Half a smile soon melts into a pretty pleased expression that spreads across her lips and puts a blush in her cheeks readily. "I could always go… back… down…" Words. She can't even get the rest of the quip out before she's closing her eyes and leaning longingly in to Logan's oh-so-addictive touch. When he withdraws, she rouses from her little reverie slowly and confesses, "It was fine… nice… good…" She barely seems capable of settling on an adequate adjective. She sneaks open one brown eye and slyly slides a sidelong look over to the man in charge, "Did you miss me?"
"I'm glad," Logan says, of her dinner review, actually honest and it makes his words sound warm. The day the happy couple truly begin to fragment, is a day things grow more complicated for all three involved - purely from a business standpoint. It's a careful balance of give and take and Logan prides himself on being a master of such a system. The palm of his hand touches to Bebe's cheek, that feeling returning, hand smoothing down her bare throat and ignoring the brush of pink, false hair. "And yes, I missed you terribly," he tells her, watching his hand against her skin more so than her. The good feeling rises, and he listens to the soundless shift of chemical processes, working them until the world starts to become a fuzzy, uncoordinated, happy place for the young woman.
A happy humming noise becomes a giggle becomes a sigh becomes a moan. The overwhelming warmth suddenly flooded in to her body through her skin makes the little hairs on the back of her neck stand up on end while her body erupts in goosebumps. Nothing she's ever known has come close to feeling quite like this… but, then again, she's never been acquainted with the same sort of friends that Jack made — ecstasy, Vicodin, morphine — which brought them both here in the first place. Instead, she met Logan. For better or worse. Better right now.
The whole world begins to sway and Bebe clings to the edge of the stretched out couch to keep from falling face-first onto the coffee table until she just can't stand to stay upright any longer. Fuck equilibrium. Just sprawl. She struggles to climb out of her suddenly uncomfortable clothes… if what she's wearing even really qualifies as clothing…
…go ahead, John. Lend a hand.
Gladly. Even if his touch does leave her skin in brief moments, like as he casually reaches over to end the life of his cigarette entirely, the deed is done, and her body will have to spend its own time recovering from the unnatural heightening of chemical. Serotonin, other neurotransmitters with complicated names Logan doesn't know, dance to whatever music he chooses - luckily, he only knows a few tunes - and jargon doesn't adequately describe the rawer, if superficial sensation of such instant gratification.
He'd never admit to being jealous of it, of what he can do for other people not not for himself. He'd never admit to being jealous of anything. But he is. Of everything.
So it's well within his right, Logan is pretty sure, to pull himself up and over the sprawling young woman, to still her hands and use his own to remove her "clothing" with efficient ease, to grip her jaw in a commanding gesture and take a kiss. There's a hiss of leather as Logan undoes his belt, not trusting the otherwise expert girl's smaller motor functions right now to do it for him as she's done countless others.
Thanks, Felix, Logan owes you one. That is, if he ever did pay for this.
 February 8th: Blue Eyes |
 February 8th: Good people come in all shapes |