Sex, Lies, and Doc Martens


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Scene Title Sex, Lies, and Doc Martens
Synopsis This scene contains all three. As well as the beginnings of a conspiracy to commit murder.
Date September 30, 2010

Solstice Condominiums - Nicole Nichols' Home

The morning starts with the splintering sound of shattering glass, and then a very apt: "…fuck!"

He doesn't shout it, but the sharpness of his voice carries it plenty of distance, hissed out through teeth before eyes batting guilty take in the rest of the empty kitchen as if Nicole could suddenly teleport and was standing right there, arms folded, foot a-tapping. But she isn't, and so, Logan is backing away from where he'd been sleepily fidgeting with the French press, wrestling glass beaker into hard plastic frame until it shattered in his hands, the counter top now littered with fragments of shardy glass, some skittered onto the floor.

He's very careful with navigating his bare feet around the pieces as he heads for the fridge, because fuck coffee, now. He's going for a beer.

Dressed at the comfort level of black boxers and a grey wife beater, Logan dips his attention into the fridge, prowling his hands around for what he seeks. Smoke tendrils up from behind the opened wing of the fridge — he didn't set anything on fire, save for the tip of his cigarette which juts at an angle from the corner of his mouth.

Breaking glass is not how Nicole wanted to be woken up this morning. Or any morning, really. "Logan," she hisses from her position on her side, staring at the wall home to the closet in the dark. Only a sliver of light illuminates the room through a gap in heavy decorative curtains. She rolls over quickly, "Did you hear tha-" It's almost a comfort to see he's not there.

When the door to the fridge closes again, Nicole is standing there. But with a look of bleary confusion, rather than one of annoyed impatience. "Good morning?" she asks groggily. Her hair is still a mess from the previous night. She's wearing, of all things, his dinner jacket held tightly and awkwardly around her frame. It was the easiest thing to slip into when she thought someone might be breaking in, okay? It isn't quite long enough, but she's got it tugged down in front, held in place with fabric wadded in her fist.

"'s all under control I was about to clean it up," is immediate, muffled greeting from behind the fridge door, the scrape of glass against plastic shelving as he finds what he's looking for and immediately going for the drawer to procure himself a bottle opener. Logan doesn't do that thing, with his teeth, and he's not dressed in any capacity that a belt would be required, elastic slung low around angular hips to show just the slightest strip of pale skin between black satin and grey cotton.

The cap is peeled off and left to rattle into the sink, a clamour of cutlery as he tosses the opener back where it came from and takes a sharp swig of the brew, now finally turning to acknowledge her and—

"Oh, baby, don't do that to the jacket," is his immediate request, sounding disappointed at the sight of her skinny fingers crumpling Armani.

Nicole laughs genuinely, shrugging the jacket off of her shoulders. But rather than drop it and let it make a heap on the floor - like what happened last night - she checks to make sure the kitchen island is clean, and then lays the jacket out over its surface. "Sorry. I didn't think… charging out here completely naked if I was being robbed, or you were being attacked, was perhaps the best idea. Though it may have made for a disarming distraction."

A glance over her shoulder to the window, where the shades were left open overnight, reminds Nicole that she should think about putting something on. Not that she couldn't make a joke about how she's putting on a free show standing there as she is in her birthday suit. "Would you like me to hang that up for you?" she nods to the jacket briefly.

"Only if you want to use the bench," is at least logical, Logan pressing a hand against his own chest to shift the sit of his shirt as he sweeps a look up and down here, from bare ankles to the shallow ridge her collarbone makes, before he's taking a step forward and away from the glittery mess of broken glass. Gestures at her with a swing of beer bottle. "That looks good on you."

Nicole's cheeks flush at the compliment. Or come on. Whatever it is where Logan's concerned. "Oh, you're funny," she responds with a small shake of her head and a breath of laughter.

"Do you want to use the bench?" Nicole jerks her head in that direction, letting the implication hang. "C'mon. Leave that mess be. It can wait." Her smile is wide, if not full of mischief. "We could go back to bed. Lie down? Comfier?"

There's a telltale kind of glance away, a casual inspection down the narrow neck of beer bottle to judge what remains within it, that portrays that hesitancy of breaking the routine, rolling into the shower on the way for the door. Lines briefly through the slope of his forehead, that smile fixing a fraction before— well, before Logan glances up and reassesses the situation of a woman completely starkers inviting him back to bed and not even telling him to leave his beer behind.

It all happens within a split second, chin jutting up in before he's sidling up with an arm around her shoulders, nudging them both in invited direction. "Well if you go and make me an offer I can't refuse— "

Nicole tips her head to rest gently against Logan's shoulder when he wraps his arm around her. She's laughing, happier this morning than he's seen her look in a long time. "That's more like it." She only gets two steps toward the hall before she stops and ducks under the man's arm and scampers back for the kitchen with a quiet Oh!

Nicole isn't about to head back to bed without a beer of her own after all. After popping the cap off, she's reclaiming her place at her lover's side. "That's better," she proclaims and nudges him back down the hall.

"I had a girl in my brothel with some sort of super strength ability," Logan is now telling Nicole as they veer into her bedroom with its charming colour scheme, his hand having come to rest at the nape of her neck and following down her spine. Breaks off, then, moving independent to climb onto the bed, a little awkward to keep beer bottle upright, the bare soles of his feet vulnerable as he crawls before lithely twisting to rest his shoulderblades against the headboard. The mattress protests beneath him, and he classily adjusts his boxers to sit better as he settles. "Guess how she opened beers."

"I'm gonna stop you right there." Nicole raises one finger, standing at the end of the bed, taking a swig from her beer and watching Logan settle in just for a moment. "I had a girl in my brothel, is not the best way to start a conversation." She giggles at it, though. "You're just lucky I find you so damned endearing." Rather than climb up onto the bed, she circles around it to set her beer on the night stand and retrieve her cigarettes and lighter.

"Did she seriously open beers with her—" Nicole winces uncomfortably. "Augh!" She presses her thighs together, a sympathetic pain just for the mental image. "Do guys really get turned on by that?"

Tucking an arm beneath his head, Logan considers that question with a faint wince writing lines at the corners of his eyes. "To be honest it made me nervous as shit," he says, in a now that I think about it tone, tipping back a sip of beer. A little ungroomed, it can't be so long since he first rolled out of bed himself and started sleepily breaking things, blonde hair in a hundred cowlicks and limbs loose. "But fuck me if it wasn't useful now and again."

"I may not be able to open a beer with my vag," Nicole reasons bluntly, taking a long drag from her cigarette once she gets it lit before finally crawling into the bed next to Logan, "but if you ever need a jolt to get your heart started, I'm your girl. I also make a great back-up generator during a storm."

Leaving her beer to sit, Nicole crawls up and over Logan, careful to hold her cigarette away from him to avoid any mishaps. She leans in slowly and presses her lips to his, tasting of beer, menthol, and other things leftover and stale from the night before. She doesn't linger. "You look really good with morning-after hair. For the record." Despite her best efforts to drag her fingers through her own hair and tame it, dark brown locks stick up awkwardly in back, punctuated by her blue highlights.

His eyes shut for the extent of the brief kiss, pressing it back in return until she's leaning away again. His nose wrinkles at the comment but his half-grin doesn't go away, shifting that arm bent beneath his skull to contemplatively scritch through blonde curls. "Flattery will get you everywhere." Long fingers go out to snag, gently, a piece of blue hair between the arcs his scarred knuckles make, an exhale edged with amusement before Logan settles himself flatter on the bed, if not completely.

"You could probably stop someone's heart too," is wry observation, releasing that lock to flop his hand back over midsection, and take another pull of beer.

When Logan is sliding down onto the bed, Nicole's bringing her cigarette back to her lips, settling back enough for the man to manoeuvre. "I think I may have done," she admits, expelling a stream of smoke through her nose. "Not well enough, though. I think the little bitch lived."

She lowers herself down onto the bed to curl up to Logan with her head on his chest, laying so her body is angled away from the man. One leg makes a peak over the bed, the opposite ankle coming up to rest against that knee, looking up toward the ceiling as she takes slow puffs from her cigarette. "I have a small confession to make."

Logan's hand makes a light, if clammy weight high on her chest, close to the base of her throat with his fingers curling against the ridge of her collarbone. The mingled scents of musk, beer and cigarette smoke are incredibly classy and not wholly unfamiliar, Logan keeping his cigarette caught between his teeth, intermittently drawing it away to ash it somewhere discreet before it can burn him, neck of the beer bottle clasped in the curl of two fingers so as best to keep at least one hand free.

"I hope I did not give you the mistaken impression that I'm a priest, darling."

"Never," Nicole murmurs, her eyes closing with a little smile touching her lips. "Nobody destined for heaven could possibly know how to do that thing that you can do when you hold your fingers like-" She stops herself and lets out a smoke-laden breath of laughter after a drag from her cigarette.

"I have a date on Friday," the woman offers plainly. There's no guilt, or indication that she's hesitant in sharing this with him. Nicole opens her eyes and arches her back just enough so she can dip her head and get a better look at her lover's face.

"With a woman."

Logan obliges enough for her to see some of his expression, a very direct look into blue eyes from pallid green, and a subtle lift of an eyebrow meant to frame cynicism around that glassy stare. Severity crumbles easily in crooked smile, or it does to a degree — smiles are made to disarm. If there's another function, he doesn't know it. Beneath her head, Logan's chest rises and falls with a dramatically deep breath, tilting a look back up at the ceiling. Then, tone playful; "Can I come too?"

Nicole sits up and sets her cigarette to smoulder in a crystal tray at her bedside. She then lets out a throaty laugh and settles herself over Logan with a knee anchored on either side of his hips. "Maybe next time. If there's a next time." Her nose wrinkles faintly. "She's one of my sister's friends. So I'm not sure how this is going to pan out. But it was either let her set me up with one of her girl friends, or she was going to take it upon herself to tell you that we would be a smart match."

Oh, the horror.

"The last thing I need is for one of us to have to explain, Sissy, he's tapping that, to my little sister." Nicole rolls her eyes. "She thinks we should be in love or something." And it's said like it's some sort of joke. Who would ever suggest such a thing? That's madness. The smile doesn't change, but there's a difference in the look in her eyes as she stares down at the man. "We're not, right? I mean, this isn't love, what we have."

"And so she figured the next best thing would be a girl?" isn't answering the question, but seems to be the more important topic to needle at, mock indignance making severe lines out of his expression. "I don't picture you the type, honestly — love or not, I've no competition." Rolling out from under her, Logan is reaching to properly ash out his cigarette, muscles shifting beneath grey cotton in a stretch to go along with the motion.

A glance back, now, squinting assessment. "Love is… rules. And hurt. The good parts, I have here…" And he reaches, presses a fingertip to her thigh, eyes going deeper circles of green as warmth spreads low in her belly, seeming to grow as he skims that touch along the curve of her leg. Fades, when he retracts his hand. "Everything else is a bit old hat, don't you think."

Hands come up in surrender. "She's a lesbian," she offers as some sort of explanation. A defence. "She probably doesn't even know any men she'd want to send my way. She knows I'd chew up and spit out anyone lesser." And the tap to his chest indicates that she means lesser than Logan.

"You don't picture me the type to wh—oa shit!" Nicole reaches out with a sharp gasp to grab the lip of the headboard as that desire coils in her belly. She'd call it artificial, but there's nothing fake about what Logan stirs in her even when his ability isn't in play. Her head tips back, eyes rolling toward the ceiling with a low moan. "God, I love it when you talk about how there's no strings attached." Her hips rock forward the barest bit when his hand retreats, like she's trying to follow after his touch.

"That's what you do?" Nicole angles her head to peer down at Logan, her cheeks flushed bright pink, but she's trying to look serious. "Have you been doing that all along? Your eyes do that… thing." She draws a circle in the air to indicate those green orbs. "Where they change colour. I thought you were just negating me. Minx." Her jaw drops in faux outrage, but her face is still split wide with a grin.

A line writes across Logan's nose as he wrinkles it, eyes going distant despite the grin being mirrored back to her. His gaze skims off her, some inner berating going on before he shrugs a mostly bared shoulder. "Yeah. No telling anyone. It's called biochemical manipulation," meticulously pronounced, like he's read it or heard it more than he's said it, "but the cops don't know that." The cops also don't control the Registry, but it's a shorthand way to think about it, when you're a criminal and got Registered via arrest. "I don't do that on you. Not all the time, anyway. Maybe sometimes.

"A bit." His eyes have drained back to their pallid tone, and he tips back another sip of beer, the dregs of it sloshing shallowly in green glass.

"I would never," Nicole breathes, reaching out to trace a finger down the length of the man's nose fondly. Like she can smooth out the wrinkles made when he makes that face. "Your secrets are safe with me, Logan. Always." She slinks back down to lay on the bed next to the man with the pillow beneath her head this time, staring up at the ceiling for a companionable moment of silence, a happy smile on her lips.

That smile fades, and her brows knit together as thoughts cloud her mind. "Logan? Do you remember… when we were just getting to know each other, and I came to you for help when I was being blackmailed?" The quiet shift of pillow and case beneath her head sounds louder in Nicole's ears as she turns to look over at her companion.

That Logan honestly has to think about it for a second is more a testament to how much blackmailing the Lindergroup have to deal with, along with other similar transgressions, than it is about his own memory or sentimentality. "Vaguely," he admits, giving a full-bodied squirm to settle comfier in the bed, reaching to finally set mostly empty beer bottle aside, and link both hands together on his belly. "There was drinking involved which might be why the particulars are blurring for me. Why?"

"There was a lot of drinking involved." A ghost of a chuckle accompanies that admission. Brief. "Richard Cardinal was the one blackmailing me." Nicole bites her lip. "He knows about when I went undercover in Rickham's campaign. He knows about my sister. And… I think he knows about Daniel's involvement in the Company." A tidbit that meant nothing to her at the time, but haunts her now that she's been struggling to put all the pieces together.

"He could have the means to ruin us." Not Daniel Linderman, but she and Logan. "If he takes it to the government… Or the press?" She narrows her eyes, thinking and not happy with the conclusions she's drawing. "And why is Kain so friendly with him?"

This is complicated, this question. Questions. Toooo complicated for the hour, Logan pinching around his nose with fingertips, grinding them along the ridges of his eyesockets as if the sheer mention of Richard Cardinal was enough to give him a headache. "I dunno what he'd do. He's got the means, that I can promise you. Least for me. He was tangled up somehow in my business before I crossed over, although most of those bridges got burned off since." But who knows, says a shrug from where he lies, eyes hooding.

"Kain fancies himself a politician. That's all it is. 'course, I didn't know about it 'til he was well and truly in bed with the man, or else I'd've had more words to say on the subject. Some people are just bad for business."

"Bad for business," Nicole echoes with a sour expression. "He needs to remember whose arena he's messing with." That is to say, she firmly believes that all things political are a part of her realm. "What do we do about it?" She stretches her arms up into the air over her head and then starts absently turning the diamond tennis bracelet around her wrist. She watches intently the way the stones in their settings sparkle when she tips her wrist just so to bathe it in the sunlight spilling in through a gap in the drapes.

From beside her, a throaty, somewhat smokey chuckle makes the bed tremor briefly, before fingers are snagging her chin to turn her face to look at him. Green eyes are searching, smile crooked. "Somehow I suspect that the way we go about things have different methodologies, love," Logan points out, eyebrows raising. "But if it's any consolation, I think I've got a vague notion. Unless you've got a fantastic lawyer and the right connections that will kick his arse into Evo blackholed hell, that is. Though I know as well as anyone that keeping that man in one place is an effort."

Nicole's concentration is broken when Logan captures her chin. Her blue eyes, faintly aglow from her ability, further evidenced in the warmth of her skin beneath his fingers, search his face as well. The severity of her expression softens. She can't quite keep it up when she looks into his eyes.

Her lips turn upward in a little smile. "You'd be surprised, darling, what I'm willing to do. The lengths I'm willing to go." Nicole's smile is at once both fond, and sly. Perhaps she's not as squeaky clean as her reputation suggests. "We should seriously talk this over sometime when the hour isn't quite so ungodly."

Logan's finger edges along the line of jaw, thoughtfully, paranoia making still his expression. Well. If he didn't take a chance on anyone, he'd probably be even worse off than he is now. "I think I could get the fucker killed," he finally states, even after her invitation to talk about it later. "It would be long overdue, and— when it comes to me— something of a preemptive strike. And I know who to talk to about it." That finger then presses against her lips, as if to still any amount of questions that might surface.

The obvious 'who' is what he anticipates. "When the hour's not ungodly."

That smile widens across Nicole's face, brightens her. She reaches out to gently brush a thumb over the man's forearm. Perhaps it's not what's expected, her being so calm on the subject of murdering a man in cold blood. Her brows do furrow, and the word does begin to form on her lips.

But her response, her questions are quelled by his finger pressed against her mouth. Nicole leans away only so she can then take Logan's finger between her lips and teeth gently, sucking on the tip. No arguments here.

That gets a different smile from Logan, pushing finger one more knuckle passed Nicole's teeth, drawing it out again only when he can lean in and kiss, soft and rhythmic touches of damp, warm contact. The bed protests a little as he goes to pressed slightly more clothed body to her barer one, hand settling on her waist. By the time he's breaking the kiss off, it's because he has a question.

"On a scale of one to Doc Martens, how dyke is your sister?"

Maybe not the most encouraging thing to say while making out with someone. You'd think he'd have learned that from Mexico.

Little moans escape the back of the electrokinetic's throat, muffled against joined lips. Nicole's fingers find the hem of Logan's shirt, tugging insistently up and over his midsection. When he withdraws, at first she thinks it's to allow her to pull the garment over his head. His question registers a half second later.

Which draws a really confused and mildly incredulous look from the woman whose bed he's sharing. "She's well past Doc Martens and somewhere into Justin Bieber Haircut," Nicole responds, a curl to her lip. "Why?" Asking about her little sister while she's trying to get down to business is not how she expected this morning to go. At all.

"Shh no words," is not a very smooth transition, but— it's early, and possibly effective anyway we'll see, as Logan ducks out of his partially ridden up shirt and again crushes them into another kiss. His weight surges forward in an effort to roll her over, a hand going to grip and link with hers, pushing it back down against the mattress that groans this second movement.

At first, she doesn't respond to the way his lips press against hers again. Then she does. And then, with her body beneath him, Nicole lets out a muffled protest, her fingers flexing in his hand. Her free hand comes up to press against his chest, just gently at first. She's very particular about who has the upper hand, so to speak, and she's always squirmed and fought her way to some compromise. "L- Logan," she stammers against his lips when they part for air. "You know I like it on top." The breath of laughter is shaky, like she's nervous.

Logan's teeth catch his bottom lip in a coy kind of twist of a smile, before he's obediently rolling over onto his back, on the other side on which he arrived, all youthful exuberance, kiss warm mouth and loose, lazy movement. A hand claps down on her hip, enough to sound but not to smart, while the other occupies itself with distributing satin boxers from being worn to crumple somewhere on the floor. "Then come get me."

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