Chapter Text
2014
It starts with a seven layer dip.
A beautiful, freshly unwrapped, unsullied seven layer dip on a table in a breakroom during an office Holiday party.
Not even Veronica’s office Holiday party, actually: it’s the company party for Ross & Rice P.C., the small non-profit law firm that has sucked Parker Lee into its sphere with promises of social justice and victim advocacy and housing equality and all that stuff that makes Parker’s bleeding heart go pitter-patter. Veronica is here this afternoon because—honestly, she’s not entirely sure why, except that in true Christmas miracle form, she got off work early, and when her roommate extended the enthusiastic invitation, there had been no apparent reason to decline. If nothing else: free food.
But then, ten minutes and half a plastic cup of cheap champagne in, one of Parker’s coworkers, Jackie Cook, arrived to whisk her away for some conference call that one of the partners invited them to sit in on. It’s a great opportunity for Parker, certainly—invited by a partner and all—but it’s left Veronica in something of an uncomfortable position.
She’s planted herself in the kitchen, with clear access to sparkling wine and shortbread cookies, but also at the center of a flurry of competing distractions: Darlene Love on the stereo in the lobby, a tipsy paralegal’s impassioned rendition of Hooked on a Feeling over the karaoke machine in the corner of the breakroom, what appears to be some kind of drinking competition involving tequila shots, and about a hundred different conversations between Parker’s office mates, in their varying degrees of holiday revelry.
The party has, by this time, merged with the rest of the building’s festivities, so the employees of the marketing firm upstairs, and the two law firms on the floors below have also flooded the suite. Consequently, what began two hours ago as a tidy affair between the fifteen employees of Ross & Rice, has become a crowded, noisy, pleasantly buzzed party in a jam-packed office.
And it’s certainly a very nice party, and Veronica would probably enjoy it a great deal, except that—with Parker (her roommate since law school) and Jackie (whom she’s met—maybe twice?) gone, Veronica doesn’t actually know anyone here, and it’s beginning to get a little awkward just standing here, watching strangers embarrass themselves singing classic pop.
So Veronica has just about decided to make an Irish exit and leave Parker to complain about it later, when she spots it, sitting there, with perfectly delineated levels and a pristine surface:
The newly unveiled seven layer dip.
The key to any seven layer dip, as everyone knows, is to get to it before it’s been picked over and all the levels are collapsing into one sloppy, unappetizing mess. Otherwise you get a plate full of ambiguously chunky sour cream, which, obviously, no one wants.
But this glass serving dish of evenly distributed ingredients hasn’t been touched. Even the guy who placed it on the table moments before only peeled back the plastic before becoming distracted by a platter of mini-sausages, so—basically, score.
Alright, okay, quick change of plans.
Veronica will swing by the table, snag some dip, enjoy that, and then sneak out before Parker gets off her conference call. No sweat.
With great difficulty, she navigates through the dozens of professionals chanting enthusiastically along with the ooga chakas in the karaoke song. She stops en route only to pile tortilla chips onto a plate, because she’s got to be quick. Just one clumsy oaf with an unsteady serving spoon could completely ruin this for her.
Not Veronica, though. She carefully segregates a clean square of the dip and conveys it to the center of her plate. She even peels the plastic back over the dish, to thwart flies. When she’s arranged the chips around the dip on her plate, Veronica collects her plastic champagne cup and prepares to leave space for the next person smart enough to line up behind her, because that’s the kind of thoughtful soul that she is.
Unfortunately, in beating her quick retreat, Veronica turns away from the table and barrels straight into something large and solid.
Something that turns out to be a human male.
A human male in the process of pouring himself a cup of champagne.
The wine splashes up all over his blue dress shirt, he breathes a barely audible, “What the—”, and Veronica curses “Shit,” before the thought gets any further. She sets aside her own food at once and reaches around the guy to grab napkins from the counter behind him.
“Shit,” she says again, and then, “I’m so sorry.”
“No, it’s...”
“Here, let me,” she speaks over him, as she snatches the now empty plastic cup from his hand and places it on the counter beside her chips and dip. She sets to work patting his shirt dry, completely embarrassed, so that she’s at it for several seconds before it comes to her attention that the chest underneath is broad and—really kind of rock solid.
Suddenly that much more embarrassed, she glances up to see the immovable object to her unstoppable force.
He’s got brown eyes, which she notices before just about anything else. They’re dark and round, not especially annoyed, despite the fact that even Veronica’s limited knowledge of high-end male fashion is sufficient to alert her that this stained shirt is expensive. Nonetheless, whatever faint irritation she does detect dissolves almost instantly when they lock eyes; his expression softens, and one corner of his mouth inches upward.
“Sorry,” she says again, to fill silence... not that it’s silent in the slightest, what with this silly song over the speaker, countless conversations, laughter and chatter filling up the air around them. His mumbled response, “Not at all,” is completely inaudible, and she’s only aware of it because she reads the words off his lips.
There’s something almost-almost familiar about the guy—roughly her age, short brown hair, high forehead, straight nose, long, angular chin... like he’s handsome in a way that she’s seen somewhere before. Like maybe he reminds her of someone.
Another partygoer jostles her then, no doubt on a quest for the recently implicated seven-layer dip, but the action pushes Veronica rather closer to Immovable Object than is entirely proper for strangers, and she realizes she’d better get her act together.
The guy, for his part, swallows, and takes the napkins from her, finishing the pat down on his own. (Likely because she’s been neglecting the task in favor of checking him out. Oops. )
“Don’t worry about it,” he says, louder this time, so she can hear, “I’m sure it’s my karmic retribution. I was stealing wine.”
“I wouldn’t call it ‘stealing,’” says Veronica. “It is a party. I think partaking is actually encouraged.”
“Yeah,” he says. “But I’m technically crashing.”
Interesting. So he doesn’t work here either.
Is he visiting someone? Does he work in the building? Is he on a date?
(No wedding ring... not that Veronica cares.)
“Yeah, well, me too,” she says. “Still. ‘Tis the season.”
Immovable Object with No Wedding Ring says something else, but she only catches the tail end, “—ny on you?”—as the general party takes it upon themselves to sing along to the last chorus of the karaoke number, and the rest of his sentence is thus drowned out by everyone in the room being hooked on a feeling and high on believing.
“What’s that?” she calls back, and he repeats:
“I said, did I get any on you?”
“What?” Oh, the champagne. “I don’t...” She glances over her scarlet sweater and tartan skirt, and notices the smallest splash spot, but at least it’s not sour cream and guacamole. “Just a little...”
“Here.” He procures a few more napkins from the counter and hands them over, and she can barely decipher, “—gan by the—” over the applause that breaks out for the end of the song. (It wasn’t that great; these people must be pretty drunk).
“What?”
“My name’s Logan by the way,” he repeats, and Veronica balls up the napkins in her fist. Extends the other hand into the limited space between them.
“Veronica.”
“Monica?”
“Veronica!”
“Veronica?”
“Yes!”
“Nice to meet you!”
“You too!”
As the excitement dies down and the Blue Suede devotee relinquishes the microphone to the next performer, there’s a brief respite, and Veronica takes it upon herself to refill Immovable Ob—uh, Logan’s cup. It is truly the least she can do, since she’s responsible for emptying said cup.
“Thanks. Hey, check it out...” He nods at the pair of new singers setting up at the karaoke stand, “Duet. I’ll bet you ten bucks they sing Don’t Go Breaking My Heart.”
Veronica follows his stare and laughs. Considers for a moment, then decides: “Double or nothing it’s Ain’t No Mountain High Enough.”
His eyes are bright with humor, and he holds out his hand to shake again. “Deal.”
They stay like that for a moment, waiting for the next song to pick up.
“Baby when I met you there was peace unknown...”
Veronica groans; Logan throws his head back and laughs. “What?”
“How could we have predicted Kenny Rogers?”
“Islands in the Stream? What year is it?”
“Right?”
Logan grins; he twists back and picks up Veronica’s cup, offering it to her. “Y’know,” he points out, as she accepts, “You’d’ve made ten bucks if you’d just taken my bet.”
He wraps his hand around the neck of the champagne bottle and, off Veronica’s nod, tops off her drink. She watches the bubbles and foam in her cup, and when it’s filled, shrugs, nonchalant. Locks eyes with him, and, in her most shameless flirtation so far, says: “I’m a no-guts-no-glory kinda girl.”
Logan nods slowly, as though turning this piece of information over in his head, then taps his plastic cup against hers in toast. “Noted.” He wets his lips with his tongue, and somehow Veronica expects the next words out of his mouth to be scandalous. But what he says is, “Ten bucks one of the next three songs is something from Disney.”
Her stomach does a funny little flop: she’s not sure if the reaction is thrilled or disappointed, but she doesn’t let on. “Twenty says it’s Frozen.”
“Okay, what about this guy?” asks Logan, as a would-be Joss Stone concludes (very flat), and the next drunk and daring karaoke aficionado takes up the mantle. It’s a slightly balding thirty-something, tall and pasty, and made pastier still by the fluorescent lighting of the breakroom. “I’m thinking—ironic Top 40s pop. Katy Perry, or Lady Gaga... maybe Shakira...”
Veronica studies the candidate, knowing she has mere seconds to make her own prediction before the song starts. “No. It’s gonna be... a kitschy 80s homage. A little too earnest. Maybe something from a soundtrack?”
The opening instrumental, melodramatic harpsichord, causes Logan to choke on his drink, and Veronica throws a victorious fist in the air, as this Greg-From-Accounting looking guy belts out, If there’s something strange... in your neighborhood... who ya gonna call?
“Oh my God.” says Logan, “Okay, that was impressive.”
“Told ya.”
“That’s three in a row. How are you doing that?”
“Hey, give yourself some credit,” says Veronica, pleased with the assessment, but magnanimous in victory, “You guessed the Vietnam War protest song lady, which I did not see coming.”
“It was the sweater,” says Logan sagely. “All that wool just screamed Pete Seeger. But...” His point is utterly muted by the audience participation of the callback, “Ghost! Busters!” and it gives Veronica an idea.
“Hey.” She jerks her head towards the door. “You wanna get out of here?”
“Um...”
“No! I mean, the room.” Nice work, Mars. Real smooth. “Not—I meant, like you want to leave the kitchen? It’s just that I’m gonna have this song stuck in my head all week if I listen through the first verse, and...”
Logan mercifully cuts her off. “Sure, yeah, let’s...”
“And bring the champagne.”
“I like the way you think.” He grabs the bottle and follows her out.
Because, come on, it’s not like picking up strangers at her best friend’s office party is a habit for Veronica Mars. Neither is it one that she anticipates cultivating in the near future.
All she really knows about this guy is that he’s attractive, some kind of party crasher, and has a wide breadth of knowledge vis-à-vis mainstream pop of prior decades—traits that aren’t much to go on, and certainly don’t preclude him from being a serial killer. But also he’s made her laugh repeatedly over the course of the last half hour, like actually laugh, not just the awkwardly dutiful A-Man-Has-Told-a-Joke Laugh (fortunate, because Veronica’s sucks), and that isn’t irrelevant.
Plus, he is attractive, and Veronica has had a faint, tingling warmth in the pit of her stomach since he first grinned at her in the kitchen, a fact that indicates nothing, because that isn’t how these things work, it’s not, you don’t get struck by lightning, it’s probably the champagne or the holiday spirit or the over-exposure to melodramatic 1980s love songs or—something. But it’s a feeling that she would like to chase.
Therefore, it might very well be the case that (figuratively) dragging a guy she just met into a corner of the office and planting herself on top of the table next to the copier is a touch “forward,” but Tall, Hot, and Logan isn’t complaining.
He pours her some more champagne and asks, “So did I understand that you, too, are a party crasher?”
“Sort of,” she says, “I was technically invited, I just don’t work in the building. My roommate is a second year here.”
“Gotcha.”
“What about you? Just here for the free booze?”
Logan shakes his head. “As irresistible as I find twelve-dollar champagne, I’m here to drop off a Christmas present for my friend Wallace. I guess there was some kind of all-important conference call, and I got shunted.”
“No kidding, I think I’m a victim of the same call. And I don’t actually know anyone else here.”
“So you were just... waiting for the karaoke machine?”
“Nope, I was waiting for some sucker to show up and place bets against me.” She crosses her leg at the knee, and leans back against the wall behind her. “I never do karaoke. It wouldn’t be fair.”
“That bad?”
“That good. It’d be the performative equivalent of bringing a gun to a knife fight.”
“Well now I kind of want to hear. And you owe me, since...” He gestures at his shirt, and Veronica shakes her head.
“I would hate to embarrass everyone else like that.”
Logan grins. “All right, scoot over,” he orders, then pushes himself up to sit on the counter beside her. “So what kind of law do you practice?”
Veronica raises her eyebrows. “Who says I’m a lawyer?”
“You’re at your lawyer friend’s lawyer party. No way would a civilian risk that.”
“Maybe I’m seeking representation. Or maybe I’m a golddigger.”
“Can’t be a golddigger, you play fast and loose with the betting.”
“It’s the long con, my friend,” she advises. “I’ve lulled you into a false sense of complacency.”
“Is that what the golddigger scene looks like these days? Should I be taking notes?”
“It couldn’t hurt.”
“See that’s the kind of talk...” He raises a speculative finger, “I’m gonna say: divorce attorney. Two thou an hour.”
She gasps with (mostly) false horror. “Just for that, no more golddigger con artist tips for you. I work in the D.A.’s office.”
This visibly piques his interest. “Here in Manhattan?”
“Uh-huh. What about you? Where do you practice?”
“Who says I’m a lawyer?”
She flatters herself that the look she sends him adequately conveys Are you kidding me, without actually verbalizing the message. Logan laughs.
“Legal Aid.”
Oh come on. “Bullshit.”
Because he can’t actually expect her to believe that.
—Or maybe he does actually expect her to believe that, because he raises his eyebrows, like her reaction is somehow off base. “Oh come on, that’s gotta be bullshit,” she says.
At least he’s laughing when he asks, “Why does that gotta be bullshit?”
“You are not a public defender.”
“I’m not?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Off the top of my head? I could put a down-payment on a pre-War brownstone with what your watch probably costs.”
“Well I don’t know what to tell you, but...”
“Plus, I work In the D.A.’s office, and I would have remembered if I’d seen you around.”
“Oh yeah, why’s that?” (She ignores his smirking implication and sips her bubbly, waits for the truth.) “Okay, fine.”
“I knew it—”
“You don’t know anything,” scoffs Logan. “I do technically work for Legal Aid, but—wow, you are so judgmental—but I only got hired three days ago.”
“I see.” Veronica makes her study, then decides: “So you’re a reformed shark.”
Logan laughs again. “You are just so sure of yourself aren’t you?”
“Sullivan & Cromwell? Truman Mann? Preston Farris? Be honest now.”
“You should stick to guessing karaoke line ups,” says Logan, shaking his head. “I just moved here. Actually, you might be able to help me—since I’m new in town and all...”
“Aha, since you don’t really know anyone, you’re thinking maybe I could show you around, is that it?” asks Veronica with a grin, but Logan frowns and shakes his head.
“No, not at all—I was hoping your boyfriend might have a poker game I could join?”
“Wow.”
“Smooth?”
“No. Terrible. Does that fake awkward thing ever work for you?”
“Not really, no. It’s implausible.”
“Because you’re just so suave?”
“Yes, exactly, thank you.”
Veronica rolls her eyes, covers her smile with her drink. “Well, in that case, you should know: I prefer a direct approach.”
“Got it. Something like: do you have a boyfriend?”
“Or ‘do you have a girlfriend?’”
“Nope.” He looks entirely pleased with himself.
“Well, if we’re being direct, as of one month ago, I am single as well.”
And well done, Veronica. Bring up the ex when chatting up a cute guy. Brilliant.
Logan’s eyebrows move again, but he doesn’t look too put off. “Where you the dump-er or the dump-ee?”
“That’s kind of a rude question.”
“You called me a shark.”
“A reformed shark. And c’mon, it’s your whole look.”
“My look?”
“Are you trying to tell me you don’t drive a BMW?” She seems to genuinely catch him by surprise with that one, which is hilarious because nothing has ever been so transparent, and she bursts out laughing. “You totally do!”
“I can neither confirm nor...”
“Let me see your keys.” She holds out her hand, but Logan shakes his head.
“No.”
“If you’ve got nothing to hide, then you won’t have any problem showing me the keys...”
“I took a cab.”
“And you’re just going to break into your apartment later?”
“I can neither confirm nor...”
“Coward.”
“Bully.”
Veronica opens her mouth to protest, but then inspiration strikes again: “I have an idea.”
“You’re supposed to be the look out,” says Veronica, glancing away from her task just long enough to catch Logan watching her, predictably impressed.
“If you knew how poor my attention span is, you’d never have given me that assignment,” he replies, but casts a perfunctory look up and down the hallway to ensure that it is, in fact, vacant. Veronica shakes her head, then hears the gratifying click of the door unlocking and extracts the hairpin from the knob. “Did they teach you that in law school?” asks Logan, as she climbs to her feet.
“High school, actually.” She pushes into the room that Parker so naïvely pointed out to her earlier, and Logan follows.
She hits the lights and illuminates the room at the center of which is one of the Ross & Rice office’s few luxuries—a lovely, dark wood regulation size pool table. “My roommate—the one who works here, showed me this earlier,” she says to Logan. “I guess it’s one of the partners’, but people come in here to blow off steam. They locked it up for the party in case people got too rowdy.”
“Nice table,” says Logan, walking around it to collect the pool cues from the rack on the far wall. “I thought this place was supposed to be one of those earnest non-profit types. The pay is crap but it looks real good on the résumé.” He frowns, pretends to consider, “Kind of like your job, right?”
“Oooh, fightin’ words from the court-ordered attorney. Bold choice there, buddy.” She rounds the table, takes the offered cue and chalk.
“Live fast, die young.” He chalks his cue. “So lock-picking, huh? That must’ve looked good on the college applications. Let me guess... Harvard undergrad.”
“Stanford,” she corrects.
“California ex-pat?”
“Born and bred.”
“Yeah? Me too.”
Veronica finishes prepping her cue stick and places the cube of blue chalk on the edge of the table. “I know.”
“You know?”
“You’ve got an accent. There’s basically an unspoken ‘Dude’ at the end of all your sentences. I bet you surf.”
“One bet at a time there, Detective.”
She shrugs. “If you insist. But don’t think just because you’re a fellow West Coaster I’m going easy on you.”
Logan just grins. He reaches into his pocket and extracts something that turns out to be a quarter, which he places flat in the palm of his hand. “Flip you for the break?”
Of course, he turns out to be good at this.
She’s known Logan for all of forty-five minutes, and she knew he would be.
He’s graceful on his feet, has long, strong limbs and precise hands. It doesn’t suck to watch.
More than that, though, she’s having fun—just stupid, mindless fun, for the first time in probably too long. Dating as a grown-up isn’t like that; it’s always this civilized, buttoned up routine. Forced. Dinner or a movie or drinks at some poorly lit wine-bar-gastropub-whatever.
This is a much better way to get to know someone.
Not that this is a date or anything. This is just hanging out. But still.
(Seth was a notoriously sore loser. Veronica knew better than to play games with him unless they were on the same team, because it wasn’t worth the drama.)
They exchange résumés—Columbia Law for her, Chicago for him, after undergrad transferring from UCLA to NYU. He clerked for Judge Somebody-Something in Cook County, was “bored as shit,” and moved back to New York about a month ago. She considered the F.B.I., but decided she’d rather be the one who made sure the bad guys got locked away and ended up at the District Attorney’s office.
He sinks three stripes in a row and Veronica actually starts to worry she might lose, before she hits two solids in immediate succession, and things start looking up. She’s pretty well set up to get the four ball in the right corner, but she could seriously mess up his positioning to hit the nine if she goes after the three instead. She weighs the pros and cons, but to deflect from the process, asks, “So what’s your deal anyway? You want to run for senate or something?”
“Huh?”
“The public defender schtick.” She squares up and focuses on the cue ball—it’s a risk, but he’ll definitely hit the nine if she doesn’t get defensive. “It’s got ‘political aspirations’ written all over it.”
Logan snorts. “God, no. Wouldn’t work anyway. I had a misspent youth.”
“Oooh, interesting. Petty theft?” She takes the shot. The cue ball glides into the nine, knocking it neatly into the three, which, tragically doesn’t land. Still, Logan’s table is significantly upset for his turn.
He obviously notices, because he sends her a dry look and says, “Cruel.”
“Thems the breaks.”
He studies the table, making his own calculations even as he answers her question, “No one else wanted me, and I don’t have student loans.” He chooses, situates himself to go after the ten...
She’s pretty sure at least half of his story is bullshit, but of an acceptable variety.
Southern Californian, obviously. Inherited wealth, something flashy. Something public, maybe? Has she seen him before?
The thought doesn’t get the chance to take root, though. His stroke doesn’t land, just barely, but he takes it in stride. He straightens up, then leans against his cue as he turns to Veronica and asks, “So what’s the verdict, Detective?”
“Whatever do you mean?” But the innocent act doesn’t pass muster. She walks past him to grab the chalk, buys herself a minute, then gives her honest evaluation: “Los Angeles native. Rich parents, but it’s new money.” And for good measure, “Child of divorce?”
“Late adolescent of divorce, but close enough for government work.” He clears his throat. “Which I guess applies here.”
She simpers sarcastically, shifts to evaluate the table (which she really should have been doing all along). “Think you can do better?” she asks.
“You and your challenges. All right...” (He’s left her no clear targets, she notices, she’ll have to get creative.) “At least one parent in law enforcement.” (Not a fantastic prognostication, given her job. She decides to go after the three ball again). “Only child.” (Poker face up as she aligns herself for the stroke; no need to boost his confidence). “You broke up with your last boyfriend because he bored the hell out of you.”
Veronica takes her shot, a lovely stroke if she does say so herself, with the cue ball glancing off the rail and tapping the three ball right into the side pocket. She stands straight, then moves around to the opposite side rail; “The ex was an F.B.I. agent. Boring wasn’t his problem.”
“So what was his problem?”
“I don’t know.” She positions herself to put the five ball in the corner pocket. “He dumped me.”
“Doesn’t say much for the Bureau.”
Veronica smiles at that. She knows it’s just flirting but it still nice to hear. Not that she’ll let on: “Your lines could use some work, y’know.”
“It’s because I’m used to relying on my looks.”
“How’s that working out for you?” The five ball reaches its destination, and Veronica grins up at him.
Logan tilts his head, lounges against the side of the table. “No complaints.”
She wins by a single ball, and is gracious only until Logan suggests they go double or nothing. “Nuh-uh, fork ‘em over, Pal.” She strides over to his side of the table and holds out her hand expectantly, and Logan rolls his eyes, but grins all the while.
“You know you weren’t playing for the car, right?” he says, but fishes the keys from his pocket and drops them into the palm of her waiting hand.
“Aha.”
She gloatingly displays the telltale BMW logo on his key fob, but he just shakes his head and perches on the edge of the table.
“See?” she gloats. “Total shark. And just why do you have so many keys anyway?”
Logan grabs back the keychain. “Enough digging from you.” He replaces them in his pocket, withdraws a cell phone instead. He must not find anything very interesting there, because he slides it back into his pocket after a second and asks, “Go again?”
“Sure.” Veronica turns and begins to gather up the balls from their various pockets. “But we’ll have to up the stakes. Loser sings karaoke?”
“If you make me sing, we’re all losers.”
“Where’d all the confidence and bravado go, hmmm?” He collects the eight and the twelve and rolls them across the table to her, and Veronica relents. “Fine.” And maybe it’s the champagne or the Holiday spirit or the high of being twenty-seven, healthy, happy, single, and working her dream job in the greatest city in the world, but she finds herself experiencing a burst of confidence: “Loser buys the first round of drinks?”
Logan rolls three more balls back to her, replies evenly, “Deal.”
“Dammit!”
He’s utterly good-natured about it, even when he’s cursing as she sinks the eight ball first—an incredibly narrow victory at the end of a hard fought game, and her relief bubbles over in the form of laughter.
“I really thought you had it,” she admits, shaking her bangs out of her eyes and exhaling with genuine relief. (What? she’s not pretending that she’s a gracious loser either.) “I did not count on you choking like that.”
“I did not choke,” Logan corrects, playfully indignant. “My—hand slipped.”
“Oh my God, your hand slipped, really?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Your hand slipped. Wow.” She tosses the chalk cube at him, but he catches it mid-air. He balls it up in his fist and hides it under his chin, an unexpected quirk that makes her want to laugh again. Instead, she busies herself cleaning up the table and teasing Logan.
She’s scarcely begun, however, before she catches a faint buzzing sound, and reaches for a cell phone that isn’t there.
“It’s me,” says Logan, pulling out his own phone and flicking through the screen. He pauses to read a text, then announces, “Looks like they’re finally off their call.”
“Perfect timing.” Veronica frowns at the table. “We should probably erase the evidence before someone catches us.”
“Good call, I’m not trying to get anyone fired.”
There’s a bit of a scramble getting everything put back in its place. Then, when Logan’s out in the corridor, Veronica switches off the lights and locks up behind them. This particular stretch of hallway—a short row, with only two offices—remains clear when they make their exit, so their misdemeanor seems to have gone undetected. Logan had the presence of mind to grab the mostly empty champagne bottle and cups, so Veronica’s pretty sure they got away with it.
“I’ve gotta drop off these tickets,” says Logan, when they reach the end of the hall and stand on the threshold to the central lobby. “But then...” He trails off, leaving it up to her...
“We’ll circle back?” Veronica suggests, feeling ridiculously brave for such an inexplicit proposition.
Logan pauses, nods, repeats: “We’ll circle back.”
“Good.”
“Good.”
“Oh—here, let me take those for you.” She retrieves the bottle and cups from him, “I’ll get rid of these, you go run your errand, and we’ll...”
“Circle back.”
“Right.”
With a quick nod, he departs, and Veronica feels herself smiling.
Probably, she looks like an idiot. Probably, she should snap out of it.
She clears her throat uselessly and regroups: so—job one is find the trashcan for the bottle. Then find a bathroom, then find Parker.
He met a girl.
He met a girl and she’s crazy smart and crazy hot, and for some reason, his head feels incredibly light. Logan doesn’t actually skip to go find Jackie, because he’s still trying to keep some semblance of composure, but it’s definitely a resisted impulse.
He spots his friend lingering in the doorway of one of the offices, chatting with a tall blonde in a navy pantsuit, and he catches the tail end of a conversation. Jackie’s mentioning that her husband is on his way over, while the blonde nods and types one handed on an iPhone, so Logan doesn’t feel too rude tapping his friend on the shoulder and interrupting.
Jackie turns and greets him with a smile, offers her cheek for a peck, saying, “Hey, I wasn’t expecting...” But then she breaks off and turns back to her friend, the blonde. “Sorry, Logan this is Parker, Parker this is Logan.”
“So nice to meet you,” says Parker, barely glancing up from her phone. “Unfortunately, I gotta run. Cook, you kicked ass back there.”
Jackie grins, self-satisfied, because she knows it’s true. “Thanks, you too.”
“See ya, Merry Christmas.” Parker the Blonde is already walking away, though, and Jackie doesn’t even bother to respond, just turns back to Logan.
“I wasn’t actually expecting you to stick around,” she says. “You could’ve just left the tickets in my office.”
“And I would have, if you’d told me where your office is.”
“Oh.” Jackie grimaces. “Right.”
—Not that Logan is even remotely sorry that he stayed. “Anyway,” he says, withdrawing the envelope containing Wallace’s Christmas present from his pants pocket, “Here you go. Thursday night, courtside, you’ll be in spitting distance of Jay-Z.”
Jackie snatches up the envelope. “Think Beyoncé will be there?”
“You know I don’t make promises about Beyoncé’s schedule.”
“Well, thanks.” She opens the envelope, glances at the tickets inside, and then looks back up to Logan. “Hey, you should come to dinner with us. Wallace’ll be here in a minute, and Alicia’s in town, so she’s watching the kids tonight.”
“You want me to third wheel your date? Wow, tempting, but...”
“The word ‘date’ leaves your vocabulary the second you get married,” says Jackie. “It’ll be like the old days. The three of us can get drunk in a bar and be really bad at shuffle board.”
“Except now you two won’t be pining after each other the whole time.”
“We did not pine.”
“The angst, Cook. It was unbearable.”
“I take it back, you are uninvited from date night,” says Jackie, folding her arms and leveling him with her patented Jackie Cook Glare: the one he got good and used to whenever he was being an idiot in law school. Which was—y’know, a fair amount.
Logan’s built up a slight tolerance to The Glare, though, so he just replies, “Good. Because I am not married, and I met a girl, and I think I have an actual date.”
Jackie raises her eyebrows. “You met a girl? When?”
“Just now.”
“Just now? Here?”
“Uh-huh.”
Immediately suspicious: “What girl?”
“She doesn’t work here. Her name’s Veronica.”
“Veronica?” Jackie considers it for a second. “Oh, I bet it’s Parker’s friend. Veronica Mars.”
Veronica Mars. Logan realizes abruptly that he didn’t actually know her last name until just now. Veronica Mars.
It’s a great name. It suits her so perfectly.
“Typical,” sighs Jackie, shaking her head. “I leave you alone for two seconds and you attach yourself to some blonde. Careful, though, Echolls, she’s a prosecutor.”
“I know, but I think I can look past it.”
“How benevolent.” She shakes the envelope and the Nets tickets contained therein. “Thanks for these. Be good, and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“Which includes what exactly?”
“Get out of here before I uninvite you from Christmas.”
Logan waves goodbye and turns back. The strange and absurd giddy feeling from before begins to percolate again, and he really has to get it under control (he shoves his hands into his pockets to keep from fidgeting), or he’s going to make a complete idiot of himself. He’ll be the first to admit that he’s been running a full charm offensive since… well, basically since Veronica Mars spilled sparkling wine all over the front of his shirt and batted her blue eyes at him—Logan’s a sucker like that—but this girl’s met him shot for shot so far, and he’s got to be on his toes just to keep up.
He steps rapidly, keeps an eye out for her as he goes.
Veronica Mars.
It really is a great name.
Veronica performs a quick inspection in the mirror over the sink. Her face looks all washed out in the white bulb bathroom light, except for little shoots of pink in her cheeks, probably from the wine. She wishes she had some powder or lip gloss to touch up, but all that stuff is in her purse in Parker’s office, so for now, she settles with fluffing out her hair and checking her teeth for lingering cilantro (none, thank God).
At least she wore a kind of cute outfit today: a red sweater with a plaid pencil skirt, not at all her usual work attire, she doesn’t know what inspired the fortuitous bout of festivity. After a moment’s fussing, trying to get her bangs to hang right—break-up bangs: always a mistake, when will she learn?—Veronica resigns herself to her appearance as is and pushes out back into the lobby.
She’s not one hundred percent sure, but she’s fairly certain that she has a date.
That’s what this is, right? She is kind of out of practice with the whole “dating” thing, and, as embarrassing as it is to find herself asking this question at the age of twenty-seven: how else are these things supposed to work?
Seth dumped her a month ago, and they’d been together over a year. Before that was law school, before that was college—and the whole experience was honestly so much easier in the academic setting.
(God knows she isn’t going to try the internet. There’s an intern in her office who’s been telling her to use something called “Tinder,” but it sounds awful, and why do people keep trying to interfere with her love life, anyway?)
It’s just drinks. Maybe dinner.
It’s not like Veronica is going home with him or anything.
And on a totally unrelated note, did she shave her legs this morning?
She basically collides with Parker outside her friend’s office, as Parker is characteristically distracted—in this case, by her cell phone, a cup of champagne, and a binder the size of her head.
“Holy shi—oh hey, girlie, you stayed!” Parker immediately hands off the champagne and rearranges the other items in her arms. “I thought for sure you’d bail. The call was—well, pretty much exactly what you’d expect, but a senior partner wanted me to sit in, so—that was kind of awesome. Did you have fun?”
Parker says it all so quickly, Veronica barely has time to come to terms with the fact that she’s now responsible for the plastic cup placed in her grasp, before she is expected to respond. “Yeah. Yeah it was—fine. It was actually—pretty okay.”
Parker stops buzzing for a moment, perks up like a puppy who’s heard the mailman. “Pretty okay?” she echoes.
“Yeah.” And since there’s no point in concealing it: “I kind of... met someone?”
“Kind of met someone?”
“I don’t know, it was...”
“Who? A guy? A girl? Do you like them? Is it that cute guy from upstairs who always wears ironic ties?”
“No, it’s—ironic ties? Is that a thing? No. No. He’s—he doesn’t even work here, actually. We were just hanging out.” Under Parker’s aggressively interested stare, Veronica is suddenly self-conscious: “His name’s Logan.”
“Oooh, Lo-gan, that’s a...” Parker breaks off. Closes her mouth, opens it again, then closes it once more and frowns. Cocks her head like she’s spontaneously decided to contemplate the mysteries of the universe, and then reverts back to Veronica: “Logan? Logan what?” Fortunately, before Veronica must confess that she doesn’t actually know his surname, Parker rushes on, “Is he tall? Brown hair, brown eyes, blue shirt?”
“Uh—yes?”
“Oh my God.” Parker grabs her elbow and nearly causes catastrophe with the champagne as she needlessly ushers Veronica a few steps backward into her office. Stage whispers, “That’s Jackie’s husband!”
“What?”
“Logan is Jackie’s husband!” Parker reiterates. “She just introduced me to him, like—twelve seconds ago.”
“Jackie’s husband? Jackie Cook your coworker’s husband?”
“Uh-huh!”
“What? No.”
“Yes!”
Veronica tries to wrap her brain around it, really she does, but, “That doesn’t even—he’s from Chicago.”
“That’s where Jackie went to law school!”
“Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously!”
No. Just—no. Parker has to be confused. She is the most distractible person on the planet, maybe she—
“Oh, look!” Parker grabs Veronica’s arm, nearly topples the champagne cup again as she tugs her the rest of the way into the office, uses the other hand to point around the threshold into the lobby. “Right there. That guy!”
And...
Yep.
Parker’s pointing at Logan all right. He’s checking his phone and collecting a black coat from the hooks by the door, and Veronica suddenly feels nauseous.
Well, he said he didn’t have a girlfriend.
Didn’t indicate anything about a wife.
“Son of a bitch.”
Parker watches her with wide blue-eyed concern, and Veronica sort of wishes the ground would swallow her up right here right now.
“So... did he like… flirt with you or something?” Parker asks, and Veronica once again flatters herself that the look she sends Parker’s way speaks for itself. “I’m just saying, maybe you misinterpreted... okay, I’m going to judge by your facial expression that I should stop talking.”
“Wise decision, Lee."
Parker lays a consoling hand on Veronica’s shoulder and kind of pats the spot, but it does absolutely nothing to abate her—what? Anger? Humiliation?
That asshole.
How could she be so stupid—
“Parker.” She turns to her friend. “Are you absolutely, one-hundred percent, beyond a shadow of a doubt certain that Jackie introduced that person to you as her husband? She said ‘husband.’ She wasn’t like—being facetious or something?”
“No,” insists Parker. “Jackie was like, ‘oh, my husband is coming, and here he is, and his name is Logan,’ and then we were like ‘nice to meet you,’ and we shook hands, and then I said ‘bye Merry Christmas’ and came over here.”
Son of a goddamn bitch.
Parker frowns. “So did you guys, like... do anything?”
“Parker, I met him ninety minutes ago.”
“Well I don’t know! No judgment, maybe you were feeling adventurous!”
Veronica would point out that for her, “adventurous” is spending ninety minutes with a guy at a party and then agreeing to get a drink with him, but she’s already feeling the early twinges of a headache, so she doesn’t bother. She needs to get out of this stupid party pronto. “Look, I’m gonna go...”
“Yeah, that’s probably a good idea,” sighs Parker. Then, because she can’t quite help herself: “Before you hit on anyone else’s spouse...”
“Parker.”
“Too soon?”
“Way too soon.”
“I’m sorry.” She musters up a slightly more sympathetic tone and says, “We’ll go home, okay? We can get drunk on dessert wine and yell at Lifetime movies together.”
Veronica sighs.
Yeah, that sounds about right. What else is she gonna do? Go back to the apartment and go to bed and think about how her boyfriend dumped her because she’s bitchy and difficult, and how apparently, she’s instinctively attracted to Jerk Sleazeballs?
“Fine,” she agrees. “Just—let’s hurry up, okay?”
“Uh-huh, I’ll make sure that the coast is clear and give this to Joel...” She pats the giant binder currently resting against her hip, “...and then we’ll peace out of here, kay?”
“Mhm.”
Parker peaks out of the office, dramatically looks both ways, then checks Veronica over her shoulder with a thumbs up. She’s maybe three strides out, before she twirls back and stalks back into the office. “Just one thing real quick: maybe while I’m gone don’t... taser anyone?”
Veronica rolls her eyes. “I won’t tase him.”
“It’s not that he doesn’t deserve it...”
“Parker...”
“I just really like this job and...”
“Parker, I’ll be fine, just go.”
Parker mouths thank-you, then skips off again. Veronica sets down the champagne cup she’s still inexplicably holding and retrieves her coat and purse from the chair behind Parker’s desk. As she shrugs into the former and retrieves her cell from the latter, she tries to solve the annoying little mystery and comes up—pretty much blank. What, this guy just picks up random women at his wife’s work?
It doesn’t make sense. Maybe Parker is confused somehow. Ergh... maybe they have some kind of arrangement? But then you don’t lie about being single, come on.
She checks her texts (one from her dad, one from Chelsea at work) and counts up all the lies he would have had to have told in the last hour... and yep, all signs point to Jerk Sleazeball. Parker really should say something, because...
“Hi.”
...Because he’s standing behind her. So much for her plan to lie low.
She inhales and counts to five. Then she kills another few seconds wondering if counting to five has ever actually worked for anyone.
She pulls her purse up over her shoulder and turns around to face him, and there he is being all... smug and jerky and married. Leaning against the doorframe, coat slung over his arm like he’s picking up Keira Knightley in a perfume commercial, christsakes.
For whatever reason, seeing him now just... completely solidifies her belief that he’s a lying son of a bitch. Because of course he is.
Good guys don’t just waltz effortlessly into your life. That isn’t how the world operates. He’s been charming and smooth all night: of course it’s bullshit, how did she not see right through that? It’s fucking embarrassing is what it is, and it’s only the want of a taser that stops her from breaking her promise to Parker right here and now.
“Hi,” she replies, completely flat. Weighing her options. Trying, albeit not very hard, to keep her cool. All she has to do is tell him that she’s not interested and then leave. Easy-peasy. No sweat.
He’s wearing that same smile—smirk—that he’s worn all night, that she thought was charming ten minutes ago but now realizes is completely douchey. Asshole.
He tricked her. He tricked her into liking him, and Veronica hates being tricked.
“So,” he goes on (and he really must practice this shit, Jesus Christ), “Did you want to get that drink?”
And fuck it.
Veronica sees red.