Title: "The Luxury Tax"
Author: monimala
Fandom: Veronica Mars
Rating/Classification: AC, Logan, Logan/Other, adult language, sexual situations.
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters. I'm just playing in the sandbox.
Summary: He knows he's going to fuck her the minute she walks into the club. 1650 words. General spoilers for the whole series.
He knows he's going to fuck her the minute she walks into the club. She's the Paris Hilton of her day, golden tanned to the edge of skin cancer and blonder than any bottle could ever hope to dye her. Her plaid skirt is short enough to qualify as a napkin at the Catholic school she's trying to pretend she came from and her white shirt is knotted above a perfectly flat belly and a diamond ring.
He doesn't even have to call it. He's the king of the pack and the boys only get what he doesn't want. He toasts an A list movie star who's barely old enough to shave with his scotch on the rocks before swiveling on the barstool and watching her make her way towards him.
Hollywood is his city. He has a finger on every pulse, a dollar in every blockbuster, and a cut of every line of nose candy that gets snorted in every bathroom on the Sunset Strip. Logan Echolls doesn't just know the game; he owns the board.
And the girl moves forward two spaces, leaning across the empty spot next to him to shout at Ryan for a Cosmo. Her voice is low, and husky, and foreign and she pulls a crisp twenty out of her cleavage when he asks for her ID.
"It's on me, Ryan." Logan nods at the kid to dispense with the formalities and plucks the bill out of her manicured fingers. Before she can even blink, he's putting it back where it came from, sliding his fingers against the swell of some truly spectacular breasts as he tucks lucky Andy Jackson into her bra.
"Some men have lost a hand that way," she murmurs, glancing down and arching a dark blond brow before turning to pick up the Cosmo.
Oh, she's one of those.
A tough little tease, like his first ex-wife.
He's tempted to go diving again to check for a taser or pepper spray but settles for grinning at her. "I'm not some man, Sweetheart. I'm *the* man."
She sips. She puts the glass down. Her accent flattens as she mimics his own. "The one that's keeping us down?"
"If you want to go down, that can be arranged."
"Do you reckon a shonky line like that's going to work?"
"Frankly? Yes. It works every time."
In fact, it landed him his second ex-wife.
There's something about Logan's boyish charm, his vulnerability, his "aw, shucks," way of delivering the most chauvinistic lines that appeals to even the most highbrow women. His tragic past helps, too. It automatically evokes a need to save him, to rescue him… and to walk away with a cool alimony check after the attempt fails. Or, at least, that's what the blurb about him in People magazine's Sexiest 100 issue from 2014 said. And who is he to not believe his own press?
The girl is halfway through her Cosmo, pretending she's not interested. But of course she is. They all are. He's almost 40 and he gets more ass than he ever did at eighteen. The $300,000 Breguet on his wrist, the Armani, the Ferragamos… it all spells money and money spells power, which spells sex.
His cock follows his train of thought, practically leaping up against his fly like an overeager puppy and he thinks the obligatory "Down, Boy," as he watches her tip back her head and drain the last drop of her drink. Her throat is perfect, long and smooth, and the tiny locket she wears on a silver chain only serves to draw a guy's eye to it.
He gives her three seconds. He can taste her already, the vodka and cranberry, the triple sec and the, "Fuck me now." One, two…
"Let's go," she says, laying red nails against his wrist.
Three more seconds and they're in the unisex bathroom on the club's second floor… the one guaranteed to have no interruptions because no one comes in here to piss. They come here to snort, to smoke, to shoot, and to carry a hot little blonde into the stall and press her up against the wall. To slide beneath her scrap of a skirt and be completely unsurprised that she's not wearing panties. He tastes her, the vodka and cranberry, the triple sec, and the sweet-salty flavor that is all woman… every woman he's ever had.
He gets her off so fast that it makes her head spin and she's mewling his name even though he never told her what it was. Because they all know it. They whisper it to themselves at night when they touch themselves, just praying they'll get to be where she is right now.
She slides down his body, nimble fingers working at the zipper on his slacks. The rasping sound of it going down is almost as loud as the porno soundtrack of their breathing echoing off the walls. And then her mouth is on him and holy Jesus, it's good. Not every girl in L.A. can give a blowjob. Even the ones from somewhere else. Most have to be taught, to be directed, but she's a pro. Most definitely from the Land Down Under. She takes him to the hilt, her nails scraping the underside of his cock and teasing his balls. She's all suction, like a vacuum, and her tongue swirls against the sensitive tip of him.
She gets him off so fast that it makes *his* head spin.
"I didn't even get your na--" The cliché is almost all the way out of his mouth when his gaze comes back to hers… to her red, red lips and the way they curve, all slick with his come. "Lilly Kane," they murmur as she tilts her head at an all-too familiar angle and her eyes take on a haunting cat-like triumph. Funny how he didn't notice her eyes before. "The name's Lilly Kane."
Logan scrambles away from her and slams into the stall door. The lock is weak, barely fastened because they were in such a hurry to unzip and undo and fuck, so it bangs open and spills him onto the gleaming tiles… just four feet back from where she'd been on her knees.
She brushes off her plaid schoolgirl skirt, sweeps her long, blonde hair back over her shoulder. "Thanks, Mr. Echolls," she trills, mockingly… and twenty years flash past him like a movie on fast-forward. "I'll tell my dad you said 'g'day.'"
He wants to shove his hands into his pockets. To slam them into the wall. To clench and unclench them and drag them through his hair. Instead, he runs the water in the sink, hot, and pumps the soap. As if he can scrub away the feeling of her coming around two fingers and a thumb. He watches her in the mirror, dabbing at her mouth with a scrap of toilet paper, and he nearly chokes on the taste of regurgitated sex.
"Why?" he gasps out. "Why, Lilly?"
She's reapplying lipstick even though none of it got cock-sucked off. She's so red now that she's almost bloody. When she replaces the small silver tube, she pulls out her phone. "I hear it's tradition, you know?"
The miniature video camera's microphone is tinny, but he can hear himself clearly-- "Fuck, yeah. Fuck, baby, you're so hot."-- when she plays it all back.
He can see a little of Duncan in her, a little of Meg, but he should've seen her aunt there, too. Maybe he did, maybe that's why he wanted her the minute she walked in. She has that ice, that bitchiness, that poisonous "I want," that lost him his virginity in the pool house when he was fourteen and lost him his innocence four years later when he saw her on tape fucking his father.
She's right. It's tradition.
"Dad told me the whole sordid story when I turned 16," she shrugs, clicking off the recording and putting the cell phone away. "The parts he left out, I got from the rags and the Web. And then there was your sorry face on every fucking magazine cover between here and Sydney. Your stupid tragedy. Your fucking success. My dad can't even set foot in this country without an alias, but everybody knows who you are."
"I've earned it, Sweetheart," he hisses, finally shutting off the faucet and shaking his scalded hands dry. "I have *earned* my name and congrats, because tonight you've definitely earned yours."
She slaps him. He lets her. He counts to three and by four he has her up on the counter and he's kissing her for the first time. She bites down on his lower lip, she hits him, and it doesn't matter because he's got the condom, he's got her wet, and he's thrusting inside her. She still wants him. They always do. But when she's wrapping her legs around his hips and kissing him back --really blood red now-- he knows it's not because of the money or the power. It's because she's one of Duncan's girls and now she belongs to him.
**
Page Six calls his fourth wife his trophy wife. She's eighteen years younger than him and he bought her a modeling career, a Ferrari, and a Master's degree and arranged for outstanding federal charges to be dropped against her expatriate father.
The tabloids have a field day saying he married a dead girl's ghost, saying that he's compensating, that he's gone too far.
But Hollywood is his city. He has a finger on every pulse, a dollar in every blockbuster, and a cut of every line of nose candy that gets snorted in every bathroom on the Sunset Strip. Logan Echolls doesn't just know the game; he owns the board.
He hasn't gone far enough.
And every time Lilly Kane sucks him off, he collects $200 and passes 'Go.'
--end--
May 26, 2007.