Title: "Tools of the Trade"
Author: monimala
Fandom: VM
Rating/Classification: PG-13 for swearing and sexual situations, Veronica/Vinnie (ViVe!).
Disclaimer: Nope, still don't own 'em.
Summary: Veronica was boldly going where no Mars had gone before.
Veronica was boldly going where no Mars had gone before. Or so she hoped. If her dad had been inside Cesar's Palace, she didn't want to know about it and was promptly scrubbing even the vaguest notion of it out of her head. Despite its lofty name, there was nothing remotely royal about the dive bar/strip club where you could get a five dollar lap dance from the doubly-illegal -- underage and fresh from TJ -- damsel of your choice. It was, however, owned by a guy named Cesar. Cesar Velasquez. Neptune High Class of '96. Esteemed alumni of the FBLA. Mr. Pope was, no doubt, bursting with pride.
The same couldn't be said for Maricruz Ramirez. The new regime of the PCH-ers -- meaning Thumper -- gave less than critical importance to watching out for the girls in the neighborhood. Something that, according to Maricruz, Weevil had always done. On Eli's watch, girls from the barrio didn't wind up working off their brother's bar tabs by grinding on the envelope-sized stage with a postage-stamp outfit on.
"So, you want me to break your brother's kneecaps?" she'd wondered. "Because, I've got to tell you, I don't know that I have the muscle." The sophomore had blushed, shaking her head. No, she'd go to Weevil for the crucial kneecapping portion of the event. From Veronica, she needed...pictures of the other underage girls working the joint that could be used to close the Palace down. Ouch. Why not throw in world peace for a two-fer? "On second thought, I do have access to a hefty hammer..."
So, here she was...tottering into Cesar's in her best Sydney Bristow geisha wig, highest stilettos, trashiest leather mini-skirt, and sparkliest halter top. No, the waitresses did not wear anything remotely resembling a toga. Cesar's imagination matched his decor...the bare minimum required. Swiping a tray off of one of the side tables for camouflage was easy. Trying to figure out where it was safe to look? Not so much.
Despite California's strict smoke-free laws, a thick haze of it seemed to hang in mid-air. The vaguely sweet, pungent, smell of it told her that it wasn't just tobacco either. Lovely. She was going to have one Hell of a contact buzz and a case of the munchies later.
She grabbed an empty beer bottle and a half-finished pink cocktail, pretending to busy herself clearing tables while straining to place Maricruz's jailbait co-workers. She had a handy-dandy mini-cam taped against the material covering one breast. The advantage to being under-endowed...you had plenty of room in your shirts for the tools of the trade.
A depressed-looking stripper was working the stage -- were strippers EVER cheerful? -- to some thoroughly unimaginative tune with a grinding beat. You couldn't even hum along. Where was the fun in that? A few cocktail waitresses were scattered about the small club's floor, so, hopefully, her added presence wouldn't raise too many eyebrows. The key word was "hopefully." She had no desire to be anyone's Private Dancer. Okay, maybe Patrick Dempsey's, because, hello! McDreamy!
As she attempted to give an occupied booth a wide berth, making a beeline towards a short brunette who was possibly a "Cecelia" that Maricruz had told her about, an arm snaked around her waist. Definitely not Patrick Dempsey's arm. "Hey, Baby...where are you going?" Definitely not Patrick Dempsey's voice. Veronica's first instinct was to slam her elbow into the man's gut and crush his toes with her heel...one she didn't cave to. She was fairly certain that getting groped was par for the course at Cesar's Pervert Palace. She affected her best vapid smile, turning against the offending arm while simultaneously peeling the attached fingers off of her hip one by one. "To get you a refill?" she trilled. "What are you having?"
And all the air in her airhead impression was instantly sucked from her body.
Her tray tipped from her palm, almost sending the empty Bud and the martini glass flying...except that Vinnie grabbed them before they could fall. Vinnie. Vanlowe.
"Sex on the Beach?" he pondered, that familiar oily grin widening. "Slippery Nipple?"
"No Children *Ever*?" she offered, moving her knee into firing range.
His smile dialed down a notch as he released her, backing up so his mother could have some small hope of grandkids one day. He shook his head and chuckled. "A man just never knows where you're gonna show up, Veronica."
"It's the opposite with you, Vinnie," she noted, wryly. "I should've *known* you'd be here in your natural habitat."
"They have dollar pitchers on Tuesdays," he defended, automatically.
"It's a Thursday."
And as much as she wanted to stand around trading witty banter, she had a job to do. So she spun around to leave Vinnie alone with his...pitcher. And promptly spun right back. The esteemed Cesar Velasquez was about thirty pounds heavier and sufficiently less-haired than he was in his Pirates yearbook photo. And headed in their direction. "Damn!"
Sleazy and scum-sucking as he was, Vinnie was still, as she'd observed a few days before, a decent P.I. He hauled her into his booth without even a moment's pause. They went crashing against the vinyl banquette as he dragged her onto his lap so all Cesar would see was the back of her skimpy halter and her wig. Veronica's pulse beat loudly in her ears, her lungs clogging with the heady combo of panic and exhilaration that always came with the threat of discovery. Vinnie's palm was warm against her bare skin, fingers splaying across the base of her spine. "Move," he hissed, urgently.
"What do you mean, 'move'? He's right there!" she muttered out of the corner of her mouth. "Where am I supposed to go?"
"I mean *move*." he repeated, hand moving lower, slapping her ass lightly for emphasis. "Earn your paycheck. Senorita, or you're gonna get us both kicked out of here."
Oh.
Oh, *that*.
He meant...
Veronica swallowed hard. Her legs were on either side of Vinnie's hips, splayed out at very un-lap dancer like angles, which she immediately remedied. She brought her thighs close, cradling his as she tried to find a relatively non-intimate perch between his knees and his...parts. His jeans rasped against her legs, the crotch growing tighter no matter which way she went, and she wanted to quit wiggling, but that wasn't the objective here, was it? Her face felt hot with embarrassment. ""Vinnie...I..."
"Dance, Baby," he snapped, voice rising with irritation, just enough to float over the music. "I ain't paying you to take a seat." But when she looked down at him, his eyes were actually...kind. He mouthed, "Sorry," as she slowly began to grind on his lap. He glanced over her shoulder, then back at her, nodding, tightly. Cesar was still watching. Great.
Veronica did the only thing she could. She closed her eyes and thought of McDreamy. It wasn't that much of a stretch, really. Vinnie had dark hair, nice enough eyes, and his chest was hard under her hands. Who would've thought the loud shirts hid a decent build? She filed through all the dumb movies she'd seen, channeled her "Dirty Dancing" and her "Striptease" and her "Showgirls," as she raised her arms over her head, moving as sexily as she could considering she felt awkward and stupid. The nondescript stripper song had, thankfully, faded to something she recognized as "Cream," by Prince. Classy. But it had just the right rhythm.
She'd thought patrons weren't supposed to touch the dancers, but maybe that was another one of the specials, like the pitchers, because Cesar didn't come rushing over to stop Vinnie's hands. Which was good, because his touch was light, encouraging, and the only thing that kept her from scrambling off his lap and heading for the door.
"That's it. Come on. Work it," he chanted, enthusiastically. "Work for it."
His fingers skittered up the back of her neck, gently stroking her throat until the pulse there quit going haywire. She risked a glance. Sweat beaded his face. He was just staring at her now, his breathing shallow...growing sharp as she slid against the bulge at his groin by accident. "Jesus Christ," he gasped, jerking upwards.
"Sorry!"
His gaze flickered over her shoulder. "He's gone...you can stop..." But his left hand was still curved around her neck, his right flat against her back. The marijuana was giving her headache and her skirt was stuck to her skin, slick with sweat. And Vinnie was hard. Seriously hard. From her Amateur Night performance. She climbed off his lap without hesitation. So fast that she banged her hip into the Formica table and yelped. "Veronica!" He grabbed her hand, instinctively.
"No, it's okay...I'm...it's okay," she stammered, yanking away and reaching into her shirt. She unstuck part of the double-sided tape with ease, palming the camera so she wouldn't forget why she was here. For Maricruz. For all the girls who were being forced to work here.
"You're forgetting something." Vinnie pressed a roll of bills into her hand, too.
"What, no tip?" she quipped, laughing shakily, wondering how she was *ever* going to look at him again, much less compete professionally.
"You want a tip, Veronica Mars? Stay the Hell out of strip clubs." And she was back in his arms before she could even register it, sprawled across his lap as he drowned out her shocked cry with a kiss. A really intense, brain-numbing, down-to-her-toes-and-back kiss. Hot and wet and all tongue with the promise of more nudging against her belly.
Oh.
Oh, *that*.
She made a sound like a whimper -- something she would never admit to -- kissing him back just once before recovering her senses and pulling away. And he laughed, huskily, into her neck. "Take your incriminating photos, Babe...and meet me at my car in 20. You can upload, use my scanner, my dark room...whatever you want."
"Why, Vincent, you know *just* what to say to a girl..."
Veronica was boldly going where no Mars had gone before.
Straight to Hell with Vinnie Vanlowe.
--end--
March 27, 2006.