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The Peppermint Twist was alive with the sultry hum of a saxophone, the sound weaving through the room like smoke. On the small stage was a red-headed singer stood bathed in a single spotlight, her sequined emerald dress glittering like a jewel against the red velvet curtain backdrop. She leaned into the microphone, her ruby lips brushing the metal as she crooned Nina Simone’s Feeling Good, her voice a warm, honeyed drawl that dripped over the crowd.
The lighting was a moody tapestry of deep reds and bruised blues, spilling from tarnished brass sconces to cast a hazy, dreamlike glow over the club. On the walls were a gallery of framed vintage pin-up posters, each dame frozen in a playful wink or a scandalous pose - their stockings rolled down, garters peeking, all cheeky nods to the club’s retro charm.
Veronica stood behind a curved walnut bar, pouring gin over ice in a highball glass. She topped it with a splash of grenadine, watching the pink blush swirl through the clear spirit, then finished it with a black-and-white striped straw - a flourish that matched the club’s kitschy flair. With a smooth slide, she sent the drink across the bar toward the man perched on a cushioned stool, his elbows propped on the counter.
He was middle-aged, with a receding hairline, and a suit that looked as though it had seen the inside of many a boardroom. His wedding band glinted under the lights as he reached for the glass.
"One Maiden’s Blush for you," Veronica announced, her voice husky, a tone she had practiced to radiate effortless charm. She leaned slightly against the bar, her posture relaxed. "Though I can’t imagine you do much blushing, sugar."
He chuckled, taking a sip. "Only when my wife catches me somewhere I shouldn’t be."
She gave him a slow, playful smile. "Well, let’s hope you have an exit strategy."
He leaned in a fraction, likely emboldened by the liquor’s warm burn, his gaze dipping - not subtly - to her chest. She hoped he was aiming for the name tag pinned there, though the jury was still out.
"That what you’re offering, Roxy?" he asked, his voice dropping into a gravelly drawl, thick with suggestion.
Veronica mirrored his lean, just enough to let the scent of her vanilla perfume brush against him before pulling back with a wink.
"I offer drinks and conversation only, sweetheart. Anything else, you’ll have to take it up with the talent."
Raising his glass in a small toast, he laughed. "Fair enough. Keep ‘em coming."
With a final flick of her lashes, Veronica turned away, her heels clicking softly as she moved to the next order. The bar’s rhythm pulsed around her - the clatter of glasses, the rustle of bills, the occasional burst of laughter from a shadowed booth.
The flirting, the innuendos, the occasional crude proposition were par for the course, and within a couple of shifts, she had quickly learned the best way to deflect them was with a smile and a quip. Tasering them, her usual go-to when cornered, wasn’t an option here - not unless she wanted to blow her cover and earn herself a one-way ticket out the door.
The bar had slipped into a rare, fleeting lull, the saxophone’s wail fading into a soft hum as the red-headed singer paused to sip from a glass of water. Veronica watched, briefly mesmerised by her sequins glinting like a constellation under the spotlight.
Seizing the moment to busy herself behind the bar, she restocked the gleaming highball glasses that lined the shelves. She was wiping a smudge from a tumbler when the heavy oak door swung open. Her breath hitched, a sharp little snag in her chest, as Logan Echolls strolled in, with John Enbom swaggering at his side.
Logan moved with his usual effortless grace, the dim light carving shadows across his sharp jaw and catching in the spikes of his dark hair. He wore a black shirt, perfectly tailored to his lean, toned frame with the fabric clinging just enough to hint at the muscle beneath - a look that screamed effortless confidence. He was as annoyingly attractive as ever.
Beside him, John oozed rich-boy entitlement, his tailored blazer slung carelessly over one shoulder, a platinum watch glinting on his wrist - his father’s airline fortune practically seeping from his pores. He carried himself like the room owed him a standing ovation, his loud laugh cutting through the jazz like a buzzsaw.
Shit, this is all I need, Veronica thought, her pulse spiking. Logan’s going to blow my cover.
Her eyes darted around the bar, hunting for an out - a harried server to foist them onto, a convenient spill to mop up - but the staff were either juggling trays of martinis or too far off in the club’s moody haze. She was trapped.
Cliff McCormack had roped her into this case a week back. Veronica was no stranger to tracking cheating spouses, digging up dirt and cracking mysteries - but going undercover at The Peppermint Twist had given her pause. Not because of the job itself, but because of the risk of someone clocking her in a place like this. Despite its upmarket retro glamour vibe with burlesque dancers swaying under vintage chandeliers, live jazz and blues spilling from a corner stage – that was still simply dressing on the real business. Dotted around the establishment were private rooms hidden behind velvet curtains where "intimate experiences" were on offer. It was a lap dancing club with a side of class.
Cliff’s client, a dancer named Sapphire with platinum curls and a no-nonsense glare, had hired her on behalf of the girls. Someone was filming the private dances, with the footage shot from a high angle, likely from a hidden camera – and was selling it online cheap. The dancers’ regulars were dropping off, lured by the chance to pay once and watch forever, cutting into their tips and premium rates. Was it a sleazy client or a staffer chasing a quick buck? They didn’t know, and Veronica was there to find out.
Veronica had hesitated at first. Going to school during the day, and moonlighting at a strip club, even temporarily, was bound to raise eyebrows, especially if anyone from school found out. But the club’s location - just beyond Neptune’s city limits - offered a thin shield against familiar faces and more crucially, her dad’s watchful eye. Keith Mars had a nose for trouble, especially where his daughter was concerned, and the last thing she needed was him catching wind of her current gig. She’d meticulously aligned her shifts with her usual stakeouts, crafting a seamless cover - late nights trailing cheating husbands could easily explain her absence, leaving him none the wiser.
The bar itself was ideally situated with a vantage point to clock every entrance and exit, and every whispered deal in the smoky haze. Sapphire had paved the way, introducing her to Carla, the bar manager - a wiry woman with a sleek bob that gleamed like a beacon under the club’s dim lights and her permanent squint hinting at years of sizing up troublemakers. Sapphire had vouched for her, assuring Veronica that Carla would ease her into the Peppermint Twist’s rhythm with minimal fuss, and so far, the promise had held.
But now Logan threatened to unravel it all.
Worse, if he recognised her, he’d never let her live it down. The thought of him smirking, weaponising her stint as "Roxy" to taunt her, gleefully telling Dick - with his loud mouth and zero filter, he would have the story blazing through Neptune High before the first bell even rang, the gossip spreading like wildfire among the 09ers.
John, despite being a prick, was less of a threat - she’d crossed paths with him enough to know he barely registered anyone beneath his tax bracket, and her undercover look would hopefully hold against his casual glance.
Her disguise was her armour: long, dark curls sculpted into perfect ringlets, green contact lenses masking her usual bright blue eyes, carefully applied makeup to change her features, a tight red pin-up dress that clung to her like a second skin and silver heels that increased her height by a few inches. It was an outfit Veronica Mars wouldn’t be seen dead in normally. In addition, she’d practised a husky drawl and banked on the club’s dim lighting - deep reds and bruised blues from tarnished brass sconces - to blur her edges.
Veronica grabbed a silver tray, schooling her face into a mask of cool detachment as she approached their table. Her heels snapped against the black-and-white tile surrounding the bar.
Logan’s cologne hit her first – sandalwood and citrus – the scent immediately bringing back memories of being wrapped together in his Xterra during the summer. John was already barking an order at a passing dancer, his voice gratingly loud: "Hey, sweetheart, how about a little service over here?" The dancer ignored him, heading towards the stage.
"Welcome to The Peppermint Twist, boys," Veronica said, her Roxy voice sliding out smooth and sultry. "Can I tempt you both with a drink?"
John waved a dismissive hand like she was hired help - which, technically, she was. "Whiskey, top shelf, and make it quick."
Logan, though, tilted his head, his dark eyes raking over her - slow, deliberate, like he was peeling back layers. Her stomach twisted. If anyone could spot her behind the curls and contacts, it was him. But his gaze stayed unreadable, no flicker of recognition - just that maddening, neutral stare. She held her breath, tray steady, praying her cover would survive the night. He leaned back in his chair, one arm draped casually over the backrest, his dark eyes glinting under the moody lighting.
"What do you recommend?" Logan asked smoothly, that familiar lilt sending an unwanted shiver down Veronica’s spine. It was the tone he’d used a hundred times - teasing, probing, daring her to bite back.
She tilted her head, letting her ringlets spill over one shoulder as she feigned a moment of thoughtful consideration. The silver tray balanced in her hands gleamed faintly, catching the red-blue glow of the sconces.
"Well, we have a Cherry Popper," she drawled, her husky Roxy voice dripping with playful edge. Her eyes raked over him deliberately before landing back on his face. Her lips curled into a slow, amused smirk. "Oops, I bet it’s too late for that. How about a Hot Tease?"
John snorted from his seat, shaking his head with a dismissive scoff that rattled the ice in the empty glass he’d already claimed from a passing server. "Cute," he muttered.
Logan, though, held her gaze, unflinching. A flicker of something danced across his expression, gone as quick as it came, replaced by that infuriating smirk she knew too well. The one that had once melted her defences and now just pissed her off.
"Tempting," he said, drawing the word out like he was savouring it. "But I think I’m in the mood for something stronger. How about The Bombshell?"
Veronica arched a brow, the corner of her mouth twitching as she adjusted the tray against her hip. The Bombshell - a mix of bourbon, bitters, and a kick of chili liqueur - was the kind of drink that could strip paint or start a fight, depending on who was holding the glass.
"Bold choice," she replied, her voice a velvet jab. "Let’s see if you can handle it." She let the challenge hang between them, sharp and deliberate, her green eyes locked on his dark ones. But his smirk didn’t falter, and she turned on her heel, heels clicking against the tile.
The Peppermint Twist simmered with a restless heat, the red-headed singer’s voice weaving through Screamin’ Jay Hawkins’ I Put a Spell on You like a slow, hypnotic thread. A trio of dancers had joined her on stage and they moved in tandem - feather fans fluttering, satin gloves sliding off inch by inch, each gesture a calculated seduction.
Once Veronica had created the two drinks, she approached Logan and John’s table with them on her silver tray. She slid the glasses onto the table with a flourish.
"One Bombshell and a whiskey," she declared. "Enjoy the ride."
John barely grunted, already reaching for his drink with the impatience of a man used to getting what he wanted, when he wanted it. Logan, though, met her gaze again as he took the glass.
"Thanks, Roxy," he said, his tone smooth, fingers brushing the rim. "Let’s see if it lives up to the hype."
She flashed a quick, playful smirk.
"Oh, it’ll kick harder than you expect."
Then she turned, her red pin-up dress swishing as she melted back into the crowd, tray tucked under her arm. She couldn’t linger - not with Logan’s eyes on her, threatening to peel back her disguise.
She’d spent ages perfecting her makeup, sculpting sharp cheekbones and subtly reshaping her jawline and nose with careful contouring. The right strokes of a brush could be as powerful as a mask.
Time slipped by in a blur of motion as she worked the room, delivering martinis to a giggling group of women having a Bachelorette party. She dodged a drunk patron’s clumsy grab with a sidestep and a sharp smile, all while keeping Logan and John in the corner of her eye. The singer transitioned into a lively rendition of Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend, her sultry drawl replaced by a flirtatious, sparkling energy. The room responded in kind - heels tapped, drinks clinked, and the dancers on stage moved with teasing precision, all shimmering satin and knowing smiles. Logan lounged in his chair, one leg kicked out as he watched the performance with a lazy, amused interest.
When she glanced back, their glasses sat empty, ice melting into sad little puddles on the table. She grabbed her tray and wove through the crowd. Reaching their table, she bent slightly to gather the empties, her curls spilling over one shoulder.
"Enjoying the show?"
John waved a dismissive hand, his voice grating. "Another whiskey." He didn’t even look up, too busy leering at a dancer adjusting her garter with a flourish.
Logan tilted his head, that infuriating smirk creeping back as his eyes slid over her - slow, deliberate, like he was sizing up a challenge.
"Show’s decent," he said, his voice a low, warm drawl. "But I’m thinking the service might be the real star here."
Veronica straightened, balancing the glasses on her tray with a flick of her wrist.
"Oh, I’m full-service, sugar," she shot back, arching a brow. "Drinks, sass, and a smile - what more could you want?"
He chuckled, leaning forward just enough to close the gap between them. "Careful, Roxy. Keep that up, and I might start tipping extra."
She grinned, resting a hand on her hip. "I’d say you couldn’t afford me, but that shirt begs to differ." Her gaze flicked to the tailored black fabric, lingering a beat to sell the flirtation.
John snorted, slamming his empty glass down. "She’s got a mouth on her. Too bad she’s not blonde - might’ve been your type, Echolls."
Logan waved him off, his smile unshaken. "Ignore him. He’s just mad no one’s tossed him a garter yet." He tapped his glass. "Another Bombshell, if you think I can handle it."
"Oh, I’m still deciding," she shot back, her lips curving into a teasing smile. She turned with a deliberate sway of her hips, the silk of her dress whispering against her skin, the banter between them striking like flint on steel.
At the bar, she mixed their drinks with steady hands, but inside, her thoughts tangled in a restless knot. He was playing oblivious - flirty, charming, his dark eyes lit with mischief and not a hint of recognition. It should have been a relief. Instead, it left a faint, inexplicable sting. It shouldn’t matter, but it did. That he could look at her, really look at her, and see only a stranger. She shook her head, annoyed with herself. She hadn’t wanted him to blow her cover, after all.
Later, as the night rolled on and the air grew thick with innuendo and laughter, she passed by their table again, balancing a tray of cocktails. John’s glass was empty, Logan’s Bombshell nearly drained. She leaned in, gathering the near-empty tumblers, the scent of spice and citrus clinging to the air between them.
"Need a refill, boys?"
Logan tipped back the last of his drink, wincing at the heat of the chili before flashing her a slow, wicked grin. "You’re too good to me, Roxy. A guy could get used to this kind of attention."
"Don’t get too cozy," she quipped, her tone light and playful. "This attention is a limited-time offer."
He exhaled a mock sigh, leaning back against the booth. "Shame I’m so unlucky in love. Might’ve kept you around longer."
She tilted her head, her dark curls bouncing as she leaned just a fraction closer. "Oh, I bet a fine boy like you has no trouble with the ladies. What’s the hitch - too many options, or do they all run screaming?"
His laugh was low, warm, and maddeningly familiar. "Maybe I scare ‘em off. Too much charm, not enough staying power."
"Or maybe they see through the act," she countered, her eyes locking on his. "All flash, no substance."
Logan clutched his chest in mock agony, his grin never faltering. "Ouch, Roxy. You’re brutal. I like it."
John groaned, rolling his eyes. "Christ, get a room or get me another drink."
Veronica flashed him a syrupy sweet smile before turning back to Logan, masking the way her pulse tripped in her throat.
"He’s got a point - flirting’s free, but the drinks’ll cost you. Another Bombshell, or are you tapping out?"
Logan’s smirk deepened, his gaze dark and unreadable. "Keep ‘em coming, Roxy. I can take whatever you throw at me."
She spun away, tray in hand, her heartbeat hammering like a war drum. He was flirting hard, treating her like a new conquest - no hesitation, no suspicion.
The night stretched long and hazy, the crowd growing sloppier with each drink. The music pulsed from the speakers, bass reverberating through the floor, while laughter and the occasional wolf whistle pierced the dim glow of the club. Veronica navigated through the bodies, her steps steady and purposeful, before slipping away under the guise of a bathroom break.
She’d been checking the private rooms intermittently all week, waiting for something – anything - to confirm her suspicions. Room two had been clean the night before, its gold-flecked wallpaper gleaming under the low lighting, the narrow chaise unsullied by hidden eyes. But tonight, something caught her attention.
A glint. Barely perceptible, high in the corner near the ceiling vent.
Her pulse quickened. She stepped closer, heels wobbling slightly as she balanced, tilting her head to squint up at the tiny, telltale lens nestled in the shadows. No bigger than a dime, but there. Watching.
Her stomach twisted.
Gotcha.
But she couldn’t tamper with it now, not in the middle of a packed night with too many eyes and too many risks. What she needed was proof - evidence of the bastard who’d put it there.
Slipping back into the crowd, she made her way to the backroom, a cramped, windowless space that smelled of stale air and forgotten conversations. The fluorescent light overhead flickered erratically, its buzz like a dying heartbeat. The walls were lined with battered staff lockers, each one dented and scratched from years of careless slams. Scattered across the floor were bags and coats, haphazardly tossed aside by the staff, creating a disordered heap of personal belongings. The faint sound of laughter and clinking glasses from the main floor seeped through the thin walls, a reminder that the world outside continued to pulse with life.
Veronica ducked behind a stack of old dancer costumes, their fabric frayed and discarded, and yanked open her locker with a quick twist of the handle. Inside, nestled between a charger cord and her worn messenger bag, sat her laptop - slim, black, and already rigged to a private feed. She’d set up discreet pinhole cameras in the hall earlier that week, strategically angled to capture anyone moving in and out of the private rooms. Now, she just needed to load the footage.
Crouching low, the cold metal locker door pressed against her knees, biting through the sheer fabric of her stockings. She flipped open the laptop, the screen flickering to life in the dim room. Her fingers flew over the keys, rapidly scrubbing through the footage in fast-forward. She knew the camera had been active within the last hour, which gave her a short window to find what she needed.
An empty hall. A dancer adjusting her costume. A bartender ducking into the supply closet. Then, finally - there.
A burly figure in a black polo, with what looked like a security badge clipped to his chest. He lingered outside Room Two just after midnight, glancing around before slipping inside. Less than two minutes later, he emerged, his mouth curled in a smug twist.
Veronica froze the frame and zoomed in until she had a good shot of her suspect.
Shoving the laptop shut, she pushed to her feet and stalked back out, zeroing in on Carla behind the bar. The older woman was mid-pour, the amber liquor catching in the dim light, when Veronica leaned in.
"Got a sec?" she murmured, nodding toward the office door. Carla shot her a weary look but set the bottle down, wiping her hands on a rag, and then followed.
Inside the paper-strewn office, Veronica flipped the laptop open again, tapping the screen.
"Here’s your culprit – he planted a camera in Room Two tonight. He’s one of your Security guys. "
Carla’s squint deepened as she leaned in, then her expression darkened.
"That’s Mick, that little shit," she muttered, arms folding tight across her chest. "Been on our payroll two years, I thought he was solid." She straightened, cracking her knuckles. "I’ll fire his ass right now and yank that thing out. Good catch."
Veronica nodded, relief loosening her shoulders that she wouldn’t have to spend any more nights hiding her activity from her dad. Carla paused at the door, glancing back.
"Hey, it’s a madhouse out there tonight. Do you mind finishing the shift still? Could use you behind the bar."
Veronica gave an easy smile, sliding back into her Roxy persona like a second skin. "Yeah, I’ve got it. Just keep the creeps in line."
Carla snorted. "Deal."
She stormed off, a woman on a mission, her pace swift and determined. Within twenty minutes, Veronica spotted Mick slinking out the back exit, head down, his body language betraying guilt. Moments later, Carla emerged from room two, a dismantled camera dangling from her hand like a trophy, the corners of her mouth curling into a satisfied smirk.
Across the room, Sapphire, working the crowd with her seductive charm, caught Veronica’s eye. She flashed a wide grin, subtle but unmistakable - a silent thanks, a spark of respect passing between them.
On stage, a new singer stepped forward, her retro ensemble catching the low light. She wore a black satin slip dress adorned with gold fringe that swung with every movement. Her honey blonde hair was styled in soft waves, framed by a black feathered boa draped over her shoulders. As she began to sing Lady Marmalade, her voice was rich and full of attitude, a sharp, sultry contrast to the more delicate tones of the previous act. Her eyes gleamed with mischief as she strutted across the stage, tapping her heels in a rhythmic beat, while the audience’s attention snapped to her every move. The remaining patrons, more awake now, rocked their bodies to the faster, more upbeat tempo, caught in the growing energy that filled the space.
Logan and John were still at their table, the empty glasses stacking up like a testament to their descent into drunkenness. Their laughter had grown looser, their gestures more exaggerated, moving from tipsy into the territory of sloppy. John’s tailored blazer now hung crookedly off his chair as he leaned forward, voice cutting through the music as he spun some barely coherent story.
"—swear, she was a model," he slurred, waving a hand. "Legs for days. Begged me to take her back to my beach house. Couldn’t get enough of me."
Veronica, wiping down the bar, barely resisted an eye-roll. The things men convinced themselves of after a few drinks. And while John’s parents might own a beach house, at 18, he was unlikely to own it himself - or anything else, for that matter.
Then Logan peeled himself away from the table, making his way toward her with a smooth, effortless stride. He moved with the kind of confidence that came from years of knowing rooms bent to his presence, his every step deliberate and assured. When he reached the bar, he propped an elbow on the counter, his posture casual, but the intensity in his gaze unmistakable. He fixed her with a lopsided grin - the kind that had gotten him out of trouble more times than she could count.
"Hey, so…" he drawled, voice thick with liquor and mischief. "What’s the deal with those private lap dances? How much to get one of those?"
Veronica stilled for a moment, the cloth in her hand pausing mid-swipe as she tilted her head to meet his gaze, momentarily caught off guard.
"What’s this? Gotta pay a girl to look your way?" She raised an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth lifting in a teasing smirk. "I figured a charmer like you wouldn’t need to shell out cash."
His grin widened, unfazed, as he leaned in closer. The scent of bourbon and woodsy cologne wrapped around her, warm and distracting.
"Nah," he murmured, voice dropping to something low and dangerous. "Just for you."
Her breath hitched, but she smothered the reaction beneath her carefully constructed mask. Roxy wouldn’t flinch. Wouldn’t betray even a flicker of recognition.
She lifted one shoulder to demure with a slow shrug. "Sorry, sugar. I’m not one of the dancers. The bar’s my stage."
He didn’t back off, his eyes locked on hers, glinting with something she couldn’t quite read - drunk bravado or something sharper?
"I’m happy to pay whatever you ask," he said, his voice smooth despite the slur. "Name your price."
Her stomach flipped. He knows. The thought slammed into her, sharp and certain. This had to be Logan messing with her - pushing her buttons, seeing how far he could take the game. He’d always loved a challenge, and this felt like him dangling bait, waiting for her to squirm.
Before she could respond, the manager sidled over, catching the tail end of his words.
"Roxy doesn’t do dances," Carla cut in, her tone brisk as she poured a gin and tonic for another customer. "Plenty of other girls, though—"
Logan shook his head, cutting her off with a wave. "Not interested. How about a one-time deal? Five grand, Roxy, just you."
Veronica froze, her hand tightening around the bar cloth. Five thousand?
Carla’s eyes went wide, lighting up like a slot machine hitting a jackpot. Her squint vanished, replaced with shrewd calculation.
"Five K? Shit, kid, you serious?" She glanced at Veronica, practically vibrating with excitement. "Sapphire’s free, or there’s Lola - both’d take real good care of you."
He shook his head again, insistent, his gaze never leaving Veronica. "Only Roxy."
Veronica’s pulse pounded in her ears. He had to know. Logan knew she’d never go for something like this - not in a million years. This was him taunting her, tossing out an absurd number just to see her balk. To get under her skin.
She leaned in, her voice teasing but edged with suspicion. "Really? You’ve got so much money you’d drop five grand on one dance?"
Logan’s smirk didn’t falter, but he tilted his head curiously. "How do you know I’m rich?"
She let out a throaty laugh. "Oh, honey, the entitlement’s wafting off you like cheap cologne - and yours ain’t cheap."
He chuckled, leaning closer, the bar counter digging into his chest. "So, what’s it gonna be, Roxy?"
Veronica crossed her arms, green eyes narrowing. "You’re serious? You’d blow that kind of cash just to see me wiggle around for three minutes?"
"Why not?" he shot back, his grin sloppy but defiant. "Good investment, if you ask me."
Carla was gaping now, practically salivating at the prospect. "Roxy, you sure you wanna pass this up?" she hissed, elbowing her. "Five grand!"
Veronica hesitated. Then, with a reckless smile, she called out loud enough for Logan to hear, "If rich boys are dumb enough to drop five grand on a whim, why the hell not? I’ll do it."
Carla’s jaw dropped, her hiss turning sharp as if she hadn’t been expecting her to accept. "You sure?"
"No nudity, though," Veronica added, her voice laced with humour. "Just dancing."
Logan’s eyes gleamed, triumphant, but then he slurred, "Perfect. Been a while since I had a brunette with sass, and I’ve always had a thing for green eyes.”
Her certainty wavered. He didn’t know. He was just a drunk, horny idiot throwing money at a fantasy. Relief and irritation tangled in her chest - she’d misread him, and now she was locked in.
"Don’t keep me waiting then," she said, her voice steady despite the storm inside. "Head to the third room on the left - red door. I’ll be there in a sec." She pointed down the hall, watching as Logan nodded with an eager grin and lurched off, his steps uneven but purposeful.
She turned to Carla, who was still staring, slack-jawed.
"Put on ‘Naughty Girl’ by Beyoncé for me, will you? I’ve seen that routine the most."
Carla blinked. "You’re actually doing this?"
Veronica didn’t answer. Instead, she reached under the bar, grabbed the tequila, and poured two shots worth - one of the job’s few perks. She knocked them back in quick succession, the burn scorching its way down, settling her jittery nerves. Liquid courage for the madness she’d just agreed to.
Carla frowned, lowering her voice as she punched the song into the sound system. "I know I encouraged you there, but are you sure you’re up for this? Ain’t this a stretch from bar work?"
Veronica wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, the tequila’s heat still buzzing in her chest. "I’ve been studying those videos for clues all week," she muttered, keeping it hushed. "Watched every hip roll, every wink – I think I’ve got the moves down."
She’d dissected the illicit footage Sapphire had handed over, hunting for camera angles and culprits, but she’d also seen enough of the dances themselves - sultry, teasing, enough to fake it for three minutes.
Carla raised an eyebrow but shrugged. "Your call, kid. Don’t screw it up. I don’t want customers complaining."
Veronica nodded, smoothing her red dress and tugging at her curls. She’d already scoped the room earlier. She’d checked every corner, every stitch, paranoid about the case that had dragged her here and confirmed it was clear from hidden cameras.. And now, having removed Mick’s hidden device from Room Two, she knew the rooms were clear. No lenses lurking to catch her off guard.
With Beyoncé’s beat about to drop, she steeled herself, the earlier victory fuelling her resolve. She lingered at the bar a moment longer, the tequila’s fiery aftertaste still tingling on her tongue. She set the empty shot glass down with a soft clink, her fingers brushing a knot in the wood as she took a slow, steady breath.
He doesn’t know who I am. She wasn’t Veronica Mars - PI with a chip on her shoulder and a bruised heart. She was playing a role - a game she’d mastered long before this gig. She could do this blindfolded. She was Roxy and she owned this moment.
The opening beats of Naughty Girl pulsed through the speakers, Beyoncé’s sultry voice slinking into the air like a call to action. Veronica straightened, smoothing her red dress one last time, the fabric clinging to her hips like a second skin. Her silver heels clicked against the tiles surrounding the bar as she moved down the hall, each step a metronome to her rising resolve. The third room on the left loomed ahead, its red door a bold slash against the dim corridor. She pushed it open, the hinges creaking faintly, and stepped inside.
Logan was already there, sprawled across a large cushioned loveseat that dominated the small space. The room was a cocoon of decadence - red velvet walls swallowing the light and a single brass lamp casting a warm, amber glow that danced across his black shirt. His legs were kicked out, one arm flung over the backrest. She reached behind her, closing the door with a soft click, and then drew the heavy velvet curtain closed in front of it with a whisper of fabric, sealing them in this private world. The room was immediately quieter, the music from the club outside now a distant thrum, the air thick with the scent of his cologne. It was intoxicating.
For a second there was a pause, and his eyebrows raised – almost like a gauntlet being thrown down. And knowing he didn’t recognise her - really, truly didn’t - lit a fire in her she hadn’t felt in months.
She wasn’t Veronica, battered by Duncan’s indifference and his eventual flight from Neptune.
She was Roxy.
Untouchable.
As the beat of the song thumped through the walls, she let it take her, its rhythm pulsing like a heartbeat she could feel in her chest.
She began slowly, her hips undulating in time with the music, each movement a subtle invitation, the red dress clinging to her curves as it slid over her skin. The silky fabric brushed against her legs, sending a shiver of sensation up her spine. Her curls bounced with each deliberate step, catching the dim light and sending flickers of gold across the room. Every move was calculated, an intoxicating mix of tease and control, gleaned from countless hours watching and perfecting the art of seduction. She locked her eyes on his, the challenge clear: I dare you to look away.
Her hands slid up her sides, tracing her curves, lingering as they skimmed over her skin before she stretched her arms high, the fabric of the dress pulling tight across her chest, accentuating every inch of her body. She bent forward, her hair spilling over one shoulder, fingers teasing through the strands before she flicked it back, the movement sharp.
She turned, lowering herself, hips rolling in perfect rhythm with Beyoncé’s sultry croon—“I’m feelin’ sexy”—and rose again, smooth and fearless.
As she danced closer to him, she could feel the heat of his gaze like a tangible thing, pressing against her skin. Logan’s reaction was immediate, visceral. His eyes darkened, pupils dilating with want, and she could see the raw hunger in them. His breath hitched, sharp and loud in the stillness of the room, his grip tightening on the cushion beneath him. The flush spreading over his neck and chest told her everything she needed to know. Every inch of her was electrified by the power she held over him - the delicious, heady rush of control.
She felt sexy. Desirable. Alive.
Logan had been with Kendall lately - who was all confidence and curves and who radiated sex appeal like it was her job. Veronica had felt the sting of that, even though who Logan slept with was none of her business. And Duncan - God, Duncan - had spent their last months together chipping away at her, his tepid reactions in bed, his refusal to initiate, often rejecting her when she did, leaving her doubting every move, every glance. But now? Logan’s face told a different story. His jaw tightened, fingers twitching, and she knew he wasn’t faking it - Logan never did. He was wrecked, and she’d done that. In that moment, she thought about Duncan and how different this was. With him, intimacy had at best been uninspiring. Here, with Logan, every nerve was on fire, every touch electric. It was liberating and terrifying all at once.
She leaned in close, hands bracing the arms of the loveseat, caging him in, her body just inches from his. Her lips hovered near his, teasing, close enough to taste the bourbon on his breath but just out of reach. She watched his lips part and his breath become shallow. She could feel the heat of his stare on her skin, and she let it simmer, letting the air crackle with tension.
Then, with a deliberate, slow movement, she dipped lower, her hips circling in a teasing grind, each motion drawing her closer to him. The fabric of her dress rode up her thighs, the cool air brushing against her exposed skin, the sensation of vulnerability heightening the eroticism. His eyes flicked down, then back up, hungry, desperate, and she could see the desire burning in them. His hands clenched at his sides, as though he wanted to reach for her but was struggling to keep himself under control.
Veronica straightened, tossing her hair back with a swift flick, the movement sharp and sensual. Her hands slid down her body, tracing the curve of her chest, her waist, her hips, feeling the heat of her skin under her fingertips. Every inch of her felt alive.
The song hit its peak—“Tonight I’ll be your naughty girl”—and she stepped back, giving him the full view, her body swaying in time with the music, bold and unrestrained. She let the rhythm take over, her movements a calculated blend of seduction and dominance, each step a challenge, each sway a promise.
Her hips rocked with a slow, deliberate motion, close enough for him to feel the heat radiating from her. She leaned forward again, her body brushing over his, letting him feel the curve of her chest against his, the heat of her body as she rocked back and forth, teasing him with the proximity of everything he craved.
She shed the self-doubt that haunted her, that awkward girl who feared rejection in the bedroom, and embraced the persona she had created. No longer soft, uncertain yellow cotton - she was bold, fiery red satin. Maybe it was the persona she’d adopted, maybe the tequila, or maybe it was Logan’s intensity - but for once, in this moment, it felt fucking good.
Logan’s gaze remained fixed on her, unwavering, his usual cocky mask gone, replaced with something raw, stripped of any pretence. The warm amber light of the room washed over him, casting long shadows that highlighted the sharp angles of his face, his shirt clinging to his chest with every strained breath. The pulsing rhythm of the song vibrated through the walls, Beyoncé’s voice echoing like a siren’s call, urging her body to move. But it was his reaction, the unguarded look in his eyes, that sent fire coursing through her veins.
Veronica moved closer, her body swaying with a fluidity she hadn’t known she possessed. Each step brought her a little nearer, her red dress climbing higher as she did, the fabric tight against her skin. She felt his eyes track her every movement, dark and hungry, pupils dilated and never leaving her. She could feel the heat of his gaze as though it was a tangible thing, igniting something deep inside of her.
His grip on the love seat tightened, his knuckles turning white, his chest rising and falling in quick, uneven breaths. She watched him swallow hard, the motion of his Adam's apple bobbing with the effort, and his jaw was clenched tight, as if he were fighting some internal battle. His entire body was rigid, tense with want, his breath stuttering as if each exhale was drawn through clenched teeth.
Veronica hesitated for a heartbeat, the space between them charged, unbearable. The pull was magnetic, inevitable, drawing her toward him like a force she couldn’t fight. She ached to reach out, to press her palms against his chest, to feel the heat radiating from his skin, the tension coiled tight in his muscles. His scent - warm, unmistakably him - lingered in the air, feeding the fire burning low in her stomach.
The air between them crackled, thick with unspoken words, anticipation threading through every breath. It didn’t matter that it was reckless. That it was messy. That it could shatter them both. In this moment, she felt alive - bold and untethered in a way she hadn’t in so long.
It hit her like a tidal wave. Desire surged through her, hot and electric, burning away months of hesitation, stripping her down to something raw and unfiltered.
The song pulsed around them, a steady beat that matched the pounding of her heart. She closed the distance, her curls brushing his shoulder, her breath ghosting over his skin. He shuddered.
She didn’t need words - his body said everything. The hunger in his darkened eyes, the way his lips parted just slightly, the tension in his fingers as they hovered, trembling, near her waist.
She tilted her head, her eyes locking with his, and then she kissed him.
It was reckless, a spark igniting a wildfire. Her lips pressed against his, soft at first, testing, but he met her without hesitation, like he’d been waiting for this moment all night. His mouth was warm, insistent, tasting of liquor and need, and he kissed her back with an urgency that stole her breath.
His hands shot up, tangling in her curls, pulling her closer as he deepened the kiss, as though the space between them was unbearable. His tongue brushed against hers, a hungry, desperate dance, and she melted into it, consumed by the fire licking through her veins. The taste of him flooded her senses - salty, sweet, intoxicating.
She swung a leg over his, straddling him, her knees sinking into the plush loveseat. The dress bunched higher, exposing the smooth curves of her thighs, and his hands were on her instantly - roaming, claiming, sliding up her back before gripping her hips with almost possessive urgency. She pressed herself against him, feeling the hard lines of his body beneath her, the heat of his skin seeping through his shirt, the unmistakable press of his arousal against her core.
Their kisses turned frantic, a clash of lips and teeth and breathless gasps, a wildfire consuming them both. Her nails dug into his shoulders, biting through fabric, while his hands roamed lower, cupping her breasts through the dress. His thumbs brushed over her nipples, sending sparks of pleasure skittering down her spine.
The world outside faded into nothing. The velvet walls, the pulsing music - none of it existed. Only him. Only this. She rocked against him, grinding down, the friction igniting jolts of ecstasy so sharp it made her head spin. A low, guttural groan rumbled in his chest, vibrating against her lips, and it only fuelled the fire, making her wilder.
Her hands slid down his chest, fingers fumbling with buttons until she could feel his bare skin beneath her palms, the rapid thud of his heart matching hers. His fingers found the zipper of her dress, yanking it down with a roughness that thrilled her. She let it fall to her waist, baring herself to his touch.
There was no hesitation. No second-guessing. Only want. Only this.
Her fingers trembled with urgency as she reached for his belt. He helped her, shoving his jeans down just enough, his erection springing free - hard, and ready. Their movements were frantic, clumsy in their desperation, but none of it mattered.
"Do you have…?" she asked breathlessly.
Without a word, he reached for his wallet, pulling out a condom with swift urgency. He tore the packet open with his teeth, his gaze never leaving hers - dark, filled with promise - as he rolled it into place.
"Are you sure?" he asked, his voice rough, hands steadying her at the waist.
In answer, she sank onto him. A sharp gasp escaped her as he filled her, stretching her in a way that was both sharp and exquisite. His head fell back with a guttural sound that sent shivers down her spine, his hands gripping her hips, guiding her into a rhythm that had them both unravelling.
They moved together, fast and fierce, her hips rolling to meet each thrust, the sensation building like a rising storm. His breath was hot against her throat, his mouth leaving a trail of kisses, nips, marks that burned in the best way. The fire between them raged, tightening, coiling, threatening to consume them whole.
She clung to him, fingers twisting in his hair as he thrust up to meet her, each movement sending her spiralling closer to the edge. His hand slipped between them, finding her clit, circling, pressing, pushing her higher.
She shattered first, pleasure crashing over her in violent waves, her cry muffled against his shoulder as she clung to him, her body trembling. He followed moments later, his grip tightening, a strangled groan tearing from his chest as he buried himself inside her, his release pulsing deep, his body shuddering beneath hers.
They stayed like that, tangled, breathless, the aftershocks rippling through them. The air around them was thick with heat, the scent of sex and perfume lingering, wrapping them in the aftermath of something reckless, something inevitable.
For a moment, neither of them moved - her straddling him, his arms still locked around her, their breathing uneven in the hush between songs. The distant hum of the club barely registered. She let her forehead rest against his, her damp curls clinging to her skin, her chest rising and falling as she fought to steady herself.
His hands traced slow, aimless patterns up her back, no longer urgent but lingering, like he wasn’t ready to let go. She closed her eyes, savouring it - the warmth of his skin, the press of his body against hers, the illusion that they could exist here, in this moment, without consequence.
Then finally he leaned forward, his lips brushing her ear, warm and soft. "I missed you," he whispered.
The words punched through her haze, sharp and stunning. Her breath caught, her body tensing as her mind reeled. I missed you.
He knew.
He’d known all along - every smirk, every flirt, every touch. The green contacts, the curls, the husky voice - none of it had fooled him. He’d played her game, let her think she was in control, and now here they were, tangled together in the wreckage of her disguise.
Her heart hammered briefly in shock, but also a heady mix of relief. Of course he’d known. She pulled back to meet his eyes. They were clear now, no longer glassy with drink, just dark and steady, holding a truth she couldn’t deny.
She had spent months running, trying to smother the feelings she wasn’t ready to face. Burying them beneath a desperate attempt at normality with Duncan, convincing herself that Logan was too much - too intense, too dangerous. But normal had always been an illusion, just another mask she wore as tightly as her Roxy persona.
Her throat tightened.
“I missed you too.” The words slipped out before she could stop them, soft and unguarded, a confession she hadn’t let herself say aloud until now. Not Roxy’s voice, husky and smooth, but hers. The words felt like she was shedding a skin she’d worn, a weight she’d carried for far too long, and her chest ached with the release.
His grip on her tightened for a brief moment, a flicker of surprise flashing across his face before it softened, transforming into something tender, something that made her chest ache.
She exhaled shakily, sliding off his lap, her legs unsteady beneath her as she stood. The red dress clung to her like an afterthought, bunched awkwardly around her waist. She tugged it back into place, the zipper catching slightly as she wrestled it up, the fabric cool against her still-sensitive skin. Her curls, slightly damp from sweat, fell into her eyes as she smoothed them back, avoiding his gaze. The weight of what had just transpired settled over her like a heavy fog, lingering and inescapable.
Logan shifted on the loveseat, dragging a hand through his tousled hair before fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. The fabric clung to his skin, still damp, still warm from where she had touched him. They dressed in silence, the rustle of clothing and the faint creak of the seat the only sounds filling the intimate hush. The brass lamp cast long shadows against the red velvet walls, trapping them in the remnants of something reckless, something neither of them could take back.
He stood, adjusting his jeans, and gestured toward the curtain with a tilt of his head. “After you,” he said, his voice low, the familiar smirk returning, though it seemed softer now.
She nodded, pushing the velvet aside and opening the door to step into the hallway. The cool air hit her like a splash of water, raising goosebumps on her skin, a stark contrast to the warmth they’d shared. Logan followed, his footsteps uneven but close behind, and together they emerged into the bar.
The Peppermint Twist had emptied out, the late hour thinning the crowd to a few scattered patrons. The red-headed singer was gone, the stage dark. The jukebox played a mournful blues tune, the kind that seemed to hang in the air long after the notes had faded.
John was slumped at their table still, his head resting on his arms. A half-empty whiskey glass teetered near his elbow, and a soft snore rattled from his throat. He seemed oblivious to Logan’s absence, too far gone in his drunken stupor to care. The bar was a graveyard of abandoned glasses and lipstick-stained napkins, the energy of the night drained away, leaving only the dim glow of neon signs and the faint clink of glasses.
Veronica stopped near the counter, the sharp click of her heels echoing in the quiet room. Logan paused beside her, and they both lingered in the silence. The afterglow of their encounter clashed with the quiet reality of the dim, deserted room. He shoved his hands into his pockets, rocking back on his heels, and cleared his throat.
“So, uh… I owe you five grand, right?”
She turned to him, her brows knitting, and a sharp laugh escaped her.
“I’m not a hooker, Logan,” she said, shaking her head. The words were biting, but they were softened by the wry smile tugging at her lips. The thought of accepting his money now seemed absurd, tainted by the intimacy they’d just shared, and she felt a flush of warmth at the memory.
He chuckled, a nervous, low sound, stepping closer, closing the gap between them.
“Fair enough,” he murmured, his gaze lingering on her face. Then, gently, he reached out, his fingers brushing her cheek as he tucked a stray curl behind her ear. His touch was light, almost tentative, a stark contrast to the urgency of moments ago. He leaned in, pressing his lips to hers in a kiss that was soft, slow - nothing like the fire that had consumed them earlier. It was a question, a promise, and she felt herself soften into it, her hands resting lightly on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart.
When he pulled back, just enough to meet her eyes, she saw it - the nerves flickering in his gaze, the vulnerability he rarely let show.
“So how about a date instead?” he asked, his voice quiet, almost hesitant, as if he was bracing for her to bolt.
She blinked, caught off guard, and then nodded in agreement.
“That sounds nice,” she said, her tone warm, a little teasing, but laced with something real. She could feel the flush creeping up her cheeks, the flutter in her stomach, and for once, she didn’t fight it. She had been running from herself, from her true desires, but tonight, she had faced them head-on, and it felt right.
Logan’s shoulders relaxed, his own smile mirroring hers, wide and genuine, lighting him up in a way she hadn’t seen in months.
“Good,” he said, his hand lingering near her face before dropping to his side. “I’ll, uh - call you. Or something.” He rubbed the back of his neck, and the awkwardness was so familiar, so him, that it made her stomach flutter.
Veronica nodded and glanced at John’s passed-out form, a soft chuckle escaping her.
“Better get him home before he drools through the table,” she quipped. Logan laughed, the sound easing the lingering tension, filling the space between them with a lightness she hadn’t felt in ages around him.
“Yeah, hero duty calls,” he said, stepping toward the table. He paused, looking back at her, his gaze holding hers for just a beat longer. “See you soon, Veronica.”
Her breath caught at the way he said her name - soft and intimate, just the way he always had.
She watched as he nudged John awake, slinging an arm around his shoulders, guiding him toward the exit, John muttering incoherently. The neon sign outside flickered, casting a dim, hazy glow over them as they disappeared into the night.
Veronica stayed where she was, a small smile lingering on her lips. A warmth spread through her chest - strange, buoyant, impossible to ignore.
For the first time in a long while, she felt like herself again.
***
Fin