The Suits are Picking Up the Bill


logan_icon.gif nicole_icon.gif

Scene Title The Suits are Picking Up the Bill
Synopsis Nicole pays Logan a visit at his club to discuss a few things she wants kept quiet.
Date October 27, 2009


A flashy little strip club, its name advertised in bright neon pink above the door in swooping cursive, with the figure of a woman outlined in the same seeming to kick a leg with each flash of the light. Two bouncers stand by the door, which is a reflective chrome and stays closed unless opened by the security duo, with a red carpeting extending out onto the pavement. They will check you for I.D. before permitting you entrance. You'll be greeted by a woman in full burlesque regalia, with exaggerated makeup, a corset that barely keeps everything in, fishnets and feathers. Provided you can pay the cover charge, she will show you to a table, offer to get your first drink of the evening, and leave you alone to enjoy what Burlesque has to offer.

The main room's focal point is the generous stage, a circular platform with Broadway lights around the edges, and a catwalk that extends further out into the scattered round tables where patrons can sit and drink. The lights that shine down on it are never particularly clear, often shards of pink, green, blue, which hide as much as they reveal. There is almost always a dancer on the stage, even as even more girls move around the room to give more intimate shows on tabletops. There's a long bar that crawls along one side of the room, with a couple of bartenders behind it, a counter of black glass with rows and rows of liquor on display on glass shelves. Leather booths are tucked away towards the back, offering some privacy for whatever purpose.

Despite the proposed theme of the club, impressions of burlesque only factor in with the permanent staff and particular shows of featured dancers. Otherwise, the tunes are standard for any kind of strip club, and the girls will wear what they like. There are private lounges for more expensive, personal shows, and a darkly lit, obscured staircase leading up to both dressing rooms and the manager's office.

Figures it would be tonight that Logan shows up for work. But in truth, between the empty apartment in Chinatown, Wendy's place, and even in his own newly furnished digs in the Upper West Side— Burlesque, in all is glittering, glassy and bristling with security cameras glory seems to be a fair fortress in which to reside.

Rather than sequester himself in the too quiet, too claustrophobic setting of his own office, the strip club's manager seems to be enjoying his own wares. Normally he haunts the bar, or lurks around the back booths and watches his kingdom from afar. Tonight, Logan sits near the stage, his chair tilted back on two precarious legs with his own hiked up and upon the rounded table, which are joined further by the legs of the woman he's watching.

Karamel, or something. You know, with a K, and hair the same colour. The fact that she flirts in smiles and winks is almost as appreciated as the flesh she bares - no, more appreciated, Logan watching her face more than her tits and legs as he knocks back another mouthful of whiskey. Thunk, thunk, goes the last two legs of his chair as he tilts it back into place, removing his feet from the table so that he might reach and offer her a folded over tenner.


"Fuck off."

The security man that's ghosted up to Logan is slightly taken aback by the very brisk response, glancing up towards the stripper who pays him no mind as she squats down to receive the money in a garter belt, before trying again. "Sir, there's someone here to see you. Nicole Nichols."

A big man, he's not entirely intimidated when Logan flashes a glare his way, but no further response from the Brit as he angles a look towards the front door, then back up at the bouncer. "Fine. Bring 'er 'round to the back. Have the barkeep send another couple of drinks."

And if she doesn't like whiskey, all the more for Logan.

Perhaps unfortunately for John Logan, Nicole Nichols seems to enjoy whiskey. At least, she does tonight. It isn't very often that the woman dresses down, though this would be the second time Logan has seen her that way. It just wouldn't be right to show up to a strip joint dressed like Jackie O.

A multi-coloured scarf, with stripes running the long way along the fabric, is wraped loosely around the woman's neck, its miriad of cream, wine, gold, forest, and navy not quite matching the olive coat with orange stitching that she shrugs off only after she's pounded back a shot. The white tank top that remains hugs the woman's slender frame. So, too, do the dark denim jeans - at least from hip to knee, before flaring out into a proper bellbottom. Silver high heeled shoes adorn her feet. Judging by the order to keep them coming that she gives to the wait staff, Miss Nichols may be in no better mood than her gracious host.

Logan is in Prada, to contrast, although at first glance it likely doesn't seem to be much at all. The thin grey sweater hangs off his frame, a wide V-neck and made of a gauzy fabric that speaks of its label, the sleeves long and the garment light for the reasonably stifling interior of the strip club. The pants are pitch black, fitted slacks, and the Italian leather shoes are tipped with gold at their pointed end, hidden though they are beneath the table's booth.

He nods his agreement at this idea to keep them coming, though doesn't touch his renewed drink, watching the play of glass and strip club lights before drrragging his gaze up to the— the— electr— other Evolved opposite him. His other hand comes up, places jaw in palm and elbow to table.

"So what can I do for you, Ms. Nichols?" His voice is rough from heavy drinking and smoking, but no less attentive, his English accent settled somewhere comfortably in the realm of received pronunciation, the accent of academics, as much as that isn't his.

"You'll forgive me if I don't offer to shake your hand," Nicole muses, dispensing with that pleasantry. She rests her elbows on the table and leans forward. "I've been in this business for a while now. Working for Mister Linderman, that is." A hand is waved in a vague sort of gesture, "However, I find myself faced with a sort of dilemma I have not yet dealt with. Not personally, at least." Now, her hands are folded on the table top, and a thin smile is given. "I have come to seek your counsel, Mister Logan, on a matter I consider very delicate."

Skimming his thumb over the slope of his clean shaven jaw, over clefted chin, there's a spark of interest cracking through the haze of whatever has apparently ruined Logan's week. Amusement, in the curve of a tiny smile, before shifting enough to take a sip of whiskey. The heavy crystal glass settles with a heavy clunk, and he sits back to let his hands wander around for his cigarette case, shifting his hips to retrieve it from his pocket. "I don't have a reputation for being very delicate, though 've got experience in dilemmas."

There's a heavy clatter as he carelessly drops the silver cigarette case onto the table, hunting next for a lighter. "What sort of dilemma are we talking about?"

There's really very little sense in beating around the bush. Nicole watches Logan rummage for his cigarettes, but it's she who procures the lighter, her thumb coming down on the push-button ignition with a click! She holds the open flame out toward the man, patiently waiting for him to add his smoke to the mix.

"I'm being blackmailed," Nicole says simply, first watching the flame climb just a little higher every second she lets the lighter run, then shifting her gaze to Logan's face. "A man broke into my home and threatened not only myself and Mister Linderman, but also my sister. I will not stand for that, Mister Logan. So, how does one deal with a blackmailer?"

His search halts and dies as she produces the lighter, Logan peeling out one cigarette from his case before leaning across the table enough to touch the tip to the open flame, drawing a breath of it as he does, smoke billowing out between them before tendrils snag and curl with the movement of him sitting back. "I hate myself for saying this," he says, after some thoughtful hesitation, "but perhaps you should go to the police. Goodness knows they're bored enough to listen."

A chuckle releases some pent up smoke, dragging harsh through his throat. "Otherwise… well. First I'd move your sister, or hire someone to keep an eye out, if you 'aven't already. What's he want from you anyway? What do you know about 'im?"

Nicole is quick to give her mystery man's description to the man across the table from her. "I know nothing about him. Not who is, not where he's from or if he's working for someone or working alone… All I know is that he's a son of a bitch for threatening my sister, and he wants me to sabotage Jennifer Chesterfield's campaign."

"Bit of a political activist, then. Who is, apparently, willing to hurt a little girl for the cause. I hate terrorists, you know?" Terrorist being anyone who wants to fuck with politics outside of the strict realm of simply voting for shit, according to Logan. He leans an elbow against the table, smoke slowly ribboning out from the burning embers as he tries to think through the last three drinks. "S'pose it could be worth poking around what enemies she might have. Hell, ask her yourself, who she's talked to, who she's worried about for whatever reason - reason don't matter, seeing as we don't know his. Just names and faces'll do."

He shrugs slim shoulders, gives her a knife-like smile as he starts to bring the cigarette back to his mouth, not before stating, "Then I guess we find him, break his kneecaps 'til he doesn't do it again. I'd also send Danny Linderman a heads up, yeah? He don't take kindly to threats."

"I… don't want Daniel to know." Daniel now, not Mister Linderman. Nicole fingers her diamond bracelet absently, the clasp making a slow, halting orbit around her wrist. "That's why I'm talking to you about this, rather than him. Or Zarek." She plucks her lighter up off the table again and fishes for her own cigarettes. "My sister's unregistered." So's Nicole, for that matter. "And this asshole is threatening to expose her. I can't, in good conscience, make my sister register. It's her decision, and her adoptive father's. Haven't told him about this mess yet, either."

One menthol stick is procured from a battered pack, nothing so fancy as the silver case Logan carries. It's lit quickly, but the first inhale enjoyed slowly. The woman makes a point of blowing the smoke out of the corner of her mouth, rather than toward her campanion. "I'm not a violent person, Mister Logan," Nicole starts with a disclaimer, "but this bastard makes me want to test the limits of my ability." As if on cue, a small crackle of electricity leaps from her fingertips to the woman's scalp just before she rakes her fingers through her hair. The jolt doesn't seem to bother her. She holds her hand out then and flexes the fingers, watching the little sparks that generate between them almost as though they travel across some conduit webbed between her digits. "You made it stop before, back in Vegas." She flashes the man a look. "Can you do it again?"

That gets Logan's attention. The fact that Linderman isn't to know, that Zarek isn't to know. There's a bitter sneer at his mouth at the notion of Registration, him being unwillingly card carrying himself, eyes darting away as he takes another draw of smoke, lets it out through his nose in an almost arrogant funneling of air. Then, that show of power makes his eyes narrow, and though Logan doesn't recoil, he certainly becomes tense and still, wary in some ways.

When he looks back at her, from her hand to her eyes, his own are twin points of vibrant green through the thickening haze of cigarette smoke between them and the odd lights of the club. Electricity stalls, peters to nothing. "I've got a few tricks up my sleeve. On paper, this is my only one."

No elaboration on what his other tricks are, as it were, going to pick up his glass again and taking a long pull of, polishing it off save for the last remaining amber dregs of bitter tasting alcohol. "Linderman'll catch on if you go to the police. You'll know he's got pull, there, though I suppose we could go about it sneaky like. Still, you sound like you want to cause this bloke pain. Can't say I disapprove."

"If I thought he was working alone, I'd have shot him in my home and called Damaris to handle it as self-defence during a home invasion," Nicole comments quite distractedly, inspecting her hand and the suddenly lack of crackling static there. "Thanks," she murmurs, taking a drink from her fresh glass of whiskey. "I don't want Mister Linderman to think that I can't handle this, you understand. And you know Zarek. He'd never let me live this down." Nicole sucks on the end of her cigarette, a stream of smoke breathed from her nose much like one might envision from a lazy dragon. "I've done a bit of homework on you, Mister Logan. I gather I can either trust your discretion on your generosity alone, or I can buy it from you. One way or another."

"When I've got money, and I do," Logan starts, with an almost princely hand gesture to indicate the wider business, although point at himself and his wardrobe would probably suffice, "it's the last thing I ask for in any kind of transaction, Nicole." Nicole. The tip of his tongue touches his bottom lip, catching stray traces of amber whiskey there, and picking up his own refilled drink.

He doesn't sip from it right away, swirls the liquid around within its prison for a second. "You can consider my help yours, on the condition that I can consider your help mine in the near or distant future. I'm very neighbourly, you know."

"Not every transaction is about monetary currency," Nicole responds, if only to prove she isn't oblivious as to how little favours work within an organisation such as the Linderman Group. Of course he'll want something in return. Her glass is lifted, swirled similarly and then the liquid imbibed, held in her mouth a moment before being swallowed down with only the smallest of faces pulled for the strength of the liquor. "I can see that," she grants the man across from her. "I'll help you in whatever way I'm capable, so long as it doesn't conflict with Mister Linderman's orders. You understand how it is."

"Says she who wants me to keep this away from Mr. Linderman himself," Logan points out, with a quick half smile. He jerks his chin up at her before turning his attention to tapping off the dead ash from his cigarette in the ashtray set out between them. "What're you afraid of? That he'll make you and yours Register or something? That he'll think less of you?" The questions seem more curious than truly jabbing, although with his particular brand of sharpness, it's hard to split the difference.

"Touche." The point is granted in Logan's favour. "It is exceedingly important that I not be seen as merely a liability in this case, Mister Logan." Nicole's lips purse. "Or any case, for that matter."

He snorts, softly, studying his cigarette as he says, "I seem to make a career out of being a liability." He switches a look back to her, and the smile he has is almost kind. If, you know. Logan could be. "Your business is your business, and he won't hear it from my mouth."

"I appreciate that," Nicole murmurs graciously, tapping grey ash into the tray between them. "More than you probably realise." The glass is lifted to her lips once more in place of the cigarette. "This is a man's business, as you well know. Showing any sort of weakness on my part could be fatal. I've never had to choose between the loyalty to my family and loyalty to my job before. Hopefully, we can get the drop on this thug so I never have to." She holds out her glass with a small smirk, "May this be a successful venture to us both," she toasts.

Logan lifts his own glass, clinks it gently to her's. "May it just," is spoken, before he takes a brisk sip of the stinging liquid. His features contort a little at the burn, as if he hasn't been on it all night enough to put a shine to his face and make his drawl even lazier. A finger raises from the glass, as to if to bid her to pause and listen. "One thing. You've been working with Daniel for some time, now."

He makes a gesture, as if his hand could communicate that this is business aside from what's been discussed at their table already. "Do you know his power very well?"

"Intimately," Nicole responds without missing a beat. "Why do you ask?" She's well on her way to earning her own sort of glow from the bitter liquid as she polishes off her glass and set it to the side of the table, awaiting a refill.

Perhaps for the first time in the short amount of space in which Nicole Nichols has become acquainted with John Logan, uncertainty pierces through a cocksure demeanor, but it would take some noticing. His gaze tracks to the table, as he scratches the back of his neck with his free hand, bandages still wrapped as they are around three fingers, the middle used to train the other two to proper straightness.

"He can't— " He cuts himself off with a brief and rueful laugh, and knocks back another swift gulp of whiskey. "He can't bring back the dead, can he?"

Nicole's eyes narrow almost suspiciously. "Why do you ask?" she echoes. Either he has ghosts he wants to stay buried, or he's got - hard as it may be to fathom - loved ones he wants back in his life. She doesn't let him linger without a clear answer, however. "No, he cannot," she informs the man across the table.

Logan's nose rankles, and he polishes off his whiskey, setting it down with a definite thud. His hand comes off it in a shrugging flourish, before both of them come to rest against the table. "Then I suppose it doesn't matter, does it? Thanks, though. I'd appreciate you didn't mentioned I asked."

"My lips are sealed," Nicole promises. She leans back in her seat, cigarette dangling from her lips lazily, and looks to the stage. "How much do you pay those girls to strut around like that anyway? I'm sure it's harder than they make it look."

The change of topic is swift, and Logan is glad to follow, eyeing the stage and the woman on it, as she slides her back down the expected pole, blonde hair trailing. "Technically, they pay me," he states, before casting Nicole a grin around his own cigarette, clenched in pearly teeth. "It's a hard life. No, see, they rent the stage and make their wages out of the tips blokes— and sometimes girls— give 'em. I rake in the cash from them and bar sales. Should I page you if we've got an amateur night coming up, then?"

"More like if you've got an opening for a partner," the woman chuckles. She watches the blonde on stage do her routine and shakes her head. "I've never understood the allure," she admits. "I mean, they aren't even real." Nicole supposes maybe she should ask her sister sometime for a woman's perspective. Now that's an odd thought. "Why, you want to see me up there? I don't think I've got enough hair to toss to qualify."

Now she's got him watching the stage, which is a really fast way to derailing Logan's focus. Still, he speaks. "They flirt with you. That's what I think. The allure, I mean. Not just about body parts, or maybe I'm sophisticated that way." A pause, a drag of his cigarette, blindly ashing it out. "And anyway, tits are tits. You're too busy not sabotaging Jenny Chesterfield to be swimming about this end of town, besides."

Nicole's head swivels back to regard Logan with raised brows. "Points to you again, Mister Logan. But campaigns aren't strictly planned or brought down in board rooms." She taps the side of her head and takes another drag of her cigarette, crushing the spent stick in the ash tray. The blonde on stage is glanced at once more. Nicole smirks. "Is she flirting with you all the way over here?" She's teasing him for the attention he gives the dancer, though part of her can hardly blame him. He is a man, after all, and she's doing what she's paid - or is paying - to do. "Though I suppose I could do quite a bit of damage to her campaign if I signed on as senior advisor, played public face for a bit, and then started moonlighting here."

"You could," Logan agrees, with a lazy tilt of his head, amusement managing to shine up again, as much as it fades quickly. "Campaigns aren't forever, though I suppose you must pay some caution to your political career beyond it— or whatever it is you do. And yes, to answer your question," he adds, leaning back against the seat of the booth, free arm draping along the back of it, "she is."

The woman does a double-take. "From here?" They're a fair way from the stage. Nicole studies the stripper for a moment and then shakes her head, bewildered. "I'll be damned. She's good." A rueful smile tugs at the corners of Nicole's mouth as she changes the subject, "I may have use for your unique talents in the future. Unless, of course, you're hiding from the public at large?" Just because he's here doesn't really mean much. Comfort zones are everything.

"Me? No." Logan shakes his head, drrragging his gaze from the distant stage to face Nicole, other arm coming to relax as the other is, spread across the booth's back. When a waitress comes by with their next round of drinks, he doesn't wave her off, but doesn't immediately go for it either. If he's going to be puking drunk, he'll do it as much as it'll take for him to get to the alleyway first, as opposed to on Nicole's shoes. "I'm a card carrying work permit having technically law-abiding resident of the United States. Got some enemies but I'm not one for hiding. What talents're you referring to, exactly? I've got so many."

The last bit draws a grin from Nicole. "Might have use for some of those, too," she chuckles. "No, I was referring, in this case, to your ability to turn off… my ability. It would be rather handy at social functions. Considering I've yet to figure out how to handle an excess charge without causing a minor blackout. The power company is going mad over my neighbourhood. It's getting to be a problem."

Amusement, again, as if there were something deeply ironic about this proposition - but it's nothing Logan feels inclined to share, at least not right now. "Range is about— I measured it once, and that was before the DHS went and poked around what I could do. 's about thirty feet, that you need to be within for me to do it. Logistics— lost— log-ist-ically, it's certainly possible. And I don't consider myself to be a bad accessory to take with."

"You certainly dress the part," Nicole grants, her hand sweeping to indicate his upscale wardrobe. "And besides, if you are so terribly underworld," and she knows very well that he is, "you'll do wonders in helping me destroy Chesterfield in the poll." She winks. The girls who rent the stage aren't the only ones who know how to flirt.

"Having an unregistered superhero in her midst might make for an even faster sinking ship, with times as they are," Logan says, wryly. "'sides, 've not a mark on me. There was a thing about an outstanding kidnapping warrant but," his hand waves, and comes to clap over and reopen his cigarette case, "bygones. I'm a free man living the American dream." Of which he could sound less bitter and cynical about it.

"You don't have to sound so thrilled, Mister Logan." The cynicism is not lost on Nicole. "At least I'm not asking you to simply be arm candy." She reaches across the table. A little awkwardly. A little clumsily. A little drunkenly. She grasps Logan's chin in her hand gently and teases, "You are more than just a pretty face, after all." She lets him go after patting his cheek once. "Though you do have a pretty face. Or handsome. Whatever threatens your machismo less."

Being flattered is at least mood brightening. Pale eyes flash some in surprise when she reaches across the table, but there's no flinch when she touches, a chuckle released when she, in turn, releases and sits back. "Oh, you can only try to threaten it," Logan says, a touch facetiously. "I can help with your ability, Ms. Nichols. You've got or can get my number, of that I'm sure. Let's just hope you don't get struck by fucking lightning again."

"Tell me the fuck about it," Nicole huffs, shaking her head as she recalls the incident in question. "Ruined that top. The fabric scorched." She rolls her eyes, trying to suppress a little laughter, "So did what's left of Zarek's heart, I suspect."

"In that case, I suspect you did him a favour, so cheers to that. He's one of those men that don't do well with having one," Logan states, with enough wryness that suggests perhaps he relates, although whatever homework Nicole did do regarding Logan— this might be reaching.

"Men possessing hearts seem to be a rare commodity in this age." Spoken like a truly bitter and jaded woman, and Nicole is in many ways. "Tell me again about how you can help me," she muses. "You make it sound so sexy."

Hey, he can do drunken flirting, bringing up his drink to sip from but not before a smokey chuckle is given in response. "I have that affect on people," Logan states, before taking that sip, small as it might be. He lets the glass dangle from his fingers spidered over the top, swirling it, ice clacking together. "It's chemical, is the ticket." Eyes become that vivid, snaky green again, covering her power. "Shuts certain things down, stops the adrenaline from flowing. It's in the blood, did you know? Powers are. Most things are. That's what I can do. As for heartless men— I've often said, Linderman likes his boys without souls, and likes his women with legs that go on for miles."

Nicole's obviously intrigued by the way Logan's eyes sort of go chameleon on her. The shade of green leaves her in wonderment. It all goes sour when he comments on how her employer supposedly likes his woman, however. Hmph! "Maybe the others are just for that, but I'm far more than just a pair of legs." She's given pause as she glances away. There's some sort of turmoil going on in that mind of hers, likely a battle with her own self-esteem.

Logan's head tilts, sort of a quizzical gesture, but the look he deals her across the table is as searching in the same way a scalpel is searching. It's sharpness goes after her upon that glance away, but any look back has him steering a look into his drink, and silently sipping from it upon casting his attention back to the stage, where more women with legs that go on for miles don't quite have the same concern as the woman sitting just across from him.

"I'm sure you are more than just a pretty face," he agrees, echoing her words back at her.

The encouragement is rewarded with a small smile when Nicole turns back to look at him. "That's nice of you to say." When the waitress comes by to check for refills, Nicole flags her down. "Something with bomb in the name," she tells her. "Any drink will do." Brows are raised at Logan. "You? Join me for a shot?"

Taking a breath, Logan looks consideringly down at his dregs of whiskey, as if reckoning with it, before downing the last few drops of amber liquid, placing the empty glass on the waiting tray. "Go on, then, always make the last one a good one. Tequila, thanks much." Good of them to get the business side of the conversation done with, before imminent black out.

"Don't suppose you've got a preferred taxi service on speed dial, have you?" Nicole watches the waitress saunter off - because that's really the only way to refer to that particular way she's walking - to fill their drink orders. "I mean, I can always call up one of Zarek's errand boys." She shrugs. "I mean, unless you've got some sort'a VIP room that I could crash in for a few hours." She holds up a finger before allowing him to think about responding to any of that. "That is damn fine whiskey, by the way. How much is that gonna run me anyway? I pro'ly should'a asked that before I started drinkin' so much of it, huh? Oh well, this is why I have a company credit card." A dismissive hand is waved. Money is no object when Danny's got the tab, right?

Grey clad shoulders shrug, as if perhaps he were to waive the bill - it is damn fine whiskey, however, and Logan, for all his words of favours and neighbours, likes income. "I've got no idea, just that I get my drinks for free because I work here. I'll 'ave the waitress bring about the bill and call up a car for you once we're done here - you'll cringe the next day if you remember you woke up in a strip bar, believe me. That, and sodding curfew'll make it so you'll be doing the walk of shame in the morning proper. There are some nice rooms, though, if you insist."

For a moment, Nicole considers insisting. But there's enough logic in her brain to gauge how drunk she is, and how drunk the man across from her is. She's not sure there's enough sobriety left to make the walk of shame worth it. "I suppose you're right."

One wagging finger points toward Logan. "You're extremely charming, you know that? I don't know why Zarek called you all those nasty names." It takes Nicole just a half second too long to realise what she just said to take it back. To her credit, she makes no attempts to smooth it over, either. She shrugs her shoulders. What'cha gonna do? It is Kain Zarek we're talking about, here. Her hand comes to rest on the table open palm, and tap there two or three times. "You should call me tomorrow." She manages to procure a pen and scrawl a number on a cocktail napkin, pushing it cross the table to the man. "And you can tell me more about how this ability thing works."

It is Kain Zarek, although Logan's mouth twists into a vague scowl that smooths back out into a customary smile which would be as charming as she says he is if it only ever reached his eyes. "Zarek's an awfully jealous man, you know. Gettin' on in his years," he says, with enough humour that it could possibly be sarcastic. If he wanted it to be.

His hand comes to lay over the cocktail napkin, considering her words with a moment of hesitation, smile fading and throat contracting around a swallow, before he's folding up her number to pocket. A flash of a smile accompanies his words. "Might be a touch busy tomorrow, but I shan't be more'n a phone away."

A dismissive wave. "Call me anyway." Nicole tilts her head to one side, fishing out and handing a credit card to the waitress when she brings the drinks. "Just settle us up, would'ja? Thanks." She turns her attention back to Logan once the set of legs (and ears) is gone. "We'll schedule something when you call, a' leas'." She lifts her glass (which contains another glass), but stops short. "Don't let Zarek get to ya. He's said plenty of not so nice things about me, too. Foul mouthed bastard just doesn't know any better. Not like people like you and I."

This statement seems to inspire a toast. Nicole holds her slightly oversized shot glass aloft and says, "To civility. And decency. And not being Kain Zarek."

His own shot glass, tall and slender and brimming with the poison that is tequila, is raised aloft, and Logan is eyeing it like he's bracing himself. "To civility and decency," he repeats, with all the sincerity of someone who has absolutely no insight, but more understanding when he agrees with, "And not being Zarek." With whom he may or may not be getting along with better, but for the sake of the moment— and the man did bitch about him—

He drinks to that. The tequila is knocked back, the glass coming down with a sharp clink of glass to wood, or whatever the table is made of. "Blimey," comes out croaked.

Nicole doesn't fare much better after literally plugging her nose and downing her shot. It leaves her coughing, if not laughing at herself a little. "If one of Linderman's accountants calls to ask you about the charge I'm putting on that card," a vague hand is waved toward the direction the waitress has gone off in, "you just tell the penny pincher that this was a business… thing." So eloquent after whiskey and whatever that was she just drank. There's a pause, and Nicole takes a moment drag a hand over her face. "Thanks, Mister Logan," she slurs. "For…" Another wave of her hand, ineffectual as before, "Whatever. You know."

"I'll cover you," Logan says, once he's sure he can open his mouth and only words will come out. Alright, he's good. No sputtering or coughing, but he does take several seconds to make sure he's not dying, before pushing himself up to stand. "You're most welcome," he says, before swiping up his cigarette case and pocketing it, after a couple of false starts. He leans in to deal a kiss to her cheek, all very European and polite if familiar, all things considered.

Is— Why, yes. Nicole Nichols is blushing. Of course, that is largely due to the amount of alcohol she's ingested in a short period, but there's something to be said about the effect a charming man (even if John Logan is the man up for discussion) on a young woman. She doesn't return the kiss, if only because she might lose her balance if she tried to do something like lean forward. "I had fun, all things considered." Nicole gives Logan a Mona Lisa smile. "Take care tonight."

His hand fans out, fingers wiggle enough to make up a wave, before Logan is weaving through the main room, guided by steps of instinct instead of thought. His fingertips skim table tops, the waists of women he passes, as if blindly guiding his way, and soon, he's crawling, if not literally, upstairs and away from the dancers and lights and young women here to see him.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License