Title: "Some Were Born to Sing the Blues"
Author: monimala
Fandom: Veronica Mars
Rating/Classification: R, V/Lamb, humor, adult language.
Disclaimer: Not my characters. I'm just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: 1810 words. A response to Gracie's prompt of, "In which Logan gets married, Veronica gets drunk, and Lamb gets very, very lucky."
Veronica always thought if anyone was going to end up in one of those Britney Spears-esque drunken Vegas wedding extravaganzas with Logan, it would be her. It only makes sense, right? She's blonde, vaguely low rent (though not cheap and most certainly never easy), and has been known to sing "Hit Me Baby One More Time" in the shower in a slightly better key than Sean Preston's mama.
But when Dick e-mails God and everybody a fine selection of photos from the Chapel of Love, Veronica is very emphatically not in them. For one thing, she's sitting at her laptop in the Hut in Neptune… making it impossible to be in two places at once. And Logan's future ex-wife is none other than a newly redheaded Madison Sinclair.
Insult meet injury.
She snaps the lid of her computer closed, torn between throwing up and looking for the amaretto they use to spike the dessert coffees. In the end, she goes with the amaretto, considering she knows exactly how thoroughly they *don't* clean the tile in the ladies room and the last thing she wants is bacteria infesting her kneecaps.
Lars is the only one who sees her do the actual pilfering from behind the counter. Of course, since he's in the middle of a stirring rendition of "Don't Stop Believin'," he's hardly in a position to rat her out. She toasts him after she dumps a shot and a half of glorious, not-quite-strong-enough booze into the dregs of her coffee. And she "holds onto that feelin'" when she's on her fourth sickly sweet dose of the stuff and Lars has relinquished the mic to some freshman 09-er girl who is singing, of all things, "Hit Me Baby One More Time."
Logan and Madison married and her at Karaoke Night. Why, yes, folks, this is officially Veronica's definition of Hell. All it's missing is a Jehovah's Witness, a couple of people who publicly pick their teeth, and the smell of those fake pine car fresheners. Fortunately, she manages to stuff her laptop into its case, return the decidedly emptier bottle to its place, and get out to the parking lot without 1) being forced to sing and 2) stumbling.
But this presents her with a whole new problem: driving. Odds are, four shots of amaretto will do fuck-all for her BAC, but given that she's probably the Balboa County Sheriff's Department's Most Wanted --hopefully just in the literal sense and not the, ew, figurative sense-- it's probably not wise to get behind the wheel. Lamb would love any excuse to pull her over.
And then her mugshot can compete with Logan's beautiful cell phone camera wedding photos. She's sure Dick would be happy to circulate it. This is the serious debate she's having, standing at the driver's side door of her Saturn, when the police cruiser pulls into the next spot.
Oh, of course. Just her luck. Why take an amaretto-soaked Mohammed to the mountain? She scowls as the door opens and slams shut, and Neptune's very own walking, talking anus is peering across the roof at her. "Veronica?"
"What?"
"That's a car. You unlock it and you get in."
She thinks about flipping him off but then does one better by reaching into her messenger bag and pulling out Beauregard --yes, she named her taser, sue her. "Lamb?"
"What?"
"This is a taser. I turn it on and it zaps away your two remaining brain cells."
He comes around the cruiser, hooking his thumbs into his belt loops. "Are you threatening an officer of the law?"
"Nope. Just playing show and tell." She stuffs Beauregard back into her bag and then unlocks her car as directed. Though she doesn't get in.
"I've never asked if you have a permit for that thing."
"Then why start now?" She makes shoo-ing motions at him as she drops her bag and her laptop case in the back seat. "Please, go wow the crowd with your musical stylings."
To her dismay, he does no such thing. Instead, he closes the few feet between them and grasps her chin with two fingers. He stares down at her until it's borderline sexual harassment and her feet are sweating inside her Chucks. "Your eyes are dilated," he observes, when she's just on the verge of telling him to get his hands the Hell off her. "Have you been drinking?"
"Yes, because Java the Hut has a fine selection of single malt scotches and one bottle of hooch that I think Lars brewed in his bathtub." She rolls her definitely not dilated eyes before pulling out of his grip. Her tongue tastes like liqueur but that's for her to know and Lamb to never find out.
She has the sneaking suspicion that, at this very moment, Logan and Madison are confirming each other's overindulgence in top dollar champagne. Ugh.
And then she remembers that present company has actually had carnal knowledge of Madison, too.
Yup, this is Hell, complete with a Journey soundtrack.
"Are you *sure* you haven't been drinking?" Lamb asks, mildly.
"God, what *is* it about Madison frakking Sinclair? First you, which shows no accounting for taste, and now Logan?" she growls, kicking her front bumper. "Seriously, is she bendy like a Russian gymnast or something? Does she like it kinky? Does she possess some sort of freakishly magic vagina that lures men to their sexual doom?"
She knows the rant does nothing to sway Lamb's suspicions that she's been indulging in Lars' moonshine. But it feels good to get it all out there, complete with emphatic kicks to her tire and hubcap.
"Lamb, why does someone *marry* a girl like that?" she demands, hoping that will at least somewhat explain her insane behavior.
He shrugs, his hands back on his belt like he's watched every bad Western ever made and is about to belly up to the bar to order some sarsaparilla. "I don't know," he drawls, leaning against the passenger door. "Personally, I was fucking her because with the lights turned low, she looked kinda like you."
"Have *you* been drinking?"
"Sober as a judge."
"That’s not saying much if you know the Balboa County judges," she notes wryly.
His eyes glint with challenge. She didn't know eyes could actually do that anywhere outside of a crappy romance novel, but they manage to do it rather sublimely. "Get in your car, Veronica. Otherwise, you have two options: 1) I arrest you on suspicion of public intoxication or 2) I drive you somewhere and let you make good on your threats to an officer of the law… only with your mouth instead of your taser."
No one is more surprised than she is when she hands over her keys.
"We'll take my car."
**
The irony of riding the Neptune Grand elevator is not lost on her. Or on him, though she's surprised he has any awareness of irony at all. They each stay on separate sides until they hit the fifth floor and follow each other down the hallway in a completely non-subtle way if anyone were to care enough to check security tapes. Inside the hotel room, she heads for the mini bar citing, "It's not public intoxication now, is it?"
"You're still below the legal drinking age," he points out, unclipping his ugly brown tie.
"I thought you were more concerned with me being below you?"
"I'm doing my civic duty and keeping a maniac off the streets." He watches her from his perch on the edge of the bed, like someone would watch an animal at a zoo. Okay, not quite like that because then that would put a whole icky bestiality spin on what's already, no doubt, the strangest decision Veronica's ever made.
"I am not a maniac," she assures, tipping a miniature bottle of Jack down her throat. "Logan is a maniac for marrying a slut in Las Vegas and letting Dick Casablancas take pictures that would make any photographer worth their salt shoot themselves in the face."
He snorts and starts unbuttoning his shirt. "All I got out of that was 'slut,' 'shoot,' and 'face.' So, are you putting those words in context for me tonight or not, Mars?"
"You're disgusting."
"And you're a lousy drunk."
"Dutch courage. How else am I going to work up the nerve to degrade myself by sleeping with you?"
Veronica gets her answer when Lamb shrugs off his shirt and pulls his wifebeater over his head. Oh, hello. That's encouraging. Very, very encouraging. If she puts a paper bag over his head, this might actually be feasible revenge sex.
And it's even more encouraging when he rises from the bed, takes the small bottle of whiskey out of her hands and places it on top of the TV. He stares down at her like he did before, bordering on sexual harassment, and this time it's not just her feet that start sweating. Her whole body goes damp and tingly.
"I know you think I'm a moron, Veronica, but let me assure you: Logan Echolls is a moron. Any guy who has you and then moves down to a bitch like Madison Sinclair deserves what he gets."
"And what are you getting?" she wonders, flattening her palm against his truly impressive chest.
"I'm getting goddamned lucky."
As far as lines go, it's not smooth. It's not romantic. But it works.
When Lamb kisses her, Veronica actually stops thinking about Logan and his future ex-wife, the temporarily redheaded slut. She stops thinking entirely. Maybe his stupidity is contagious… or maybe it's just that the man can *really* kiss. He cups her face in his hands like he might actually like her, and his mouth is gentle without being wimpy, firm without being forceful. When she lightly touches his tongue with hers, he groans and whispers her name before pulling away and resting his forehead against hers. "Amaretto," he whispers. "You were drinking amaretto."
She winds her fingers in his belt loops and yanks him close. "Don't worry… I won't make a habit of it." Then, she kisses him back. Pretending she's kissing Brad Pitt. Okay, not Brad Pitt. He's a father of four and she's not a homewrecker.
"Veronica?" Lamb taps lightly on her chin, interrupting her contemplation of Jake Gyllenhaal vs. Sawyer from LOST.
"What?"
"This is sex," he reminds, huskily. "You take off your clothes and you have it."
"Lamb?"
"What?"
She takes his hands and slides them up beneath her skirt, so he can hook his thumbs around the edges of her underwear. "Whoever said anything about taking off my clothes?"
**
Veronica always thought if anyone was going to end up in one of those Britney Spears-esque drunken Vegas wedding extravaganzas with Logan, it would be her.
Instead, she ends up in one with Sheriff Don Lamb.
Insult meet injury.
And kiss the bride.
--end--
October 9, 2007.