Day Ten
Veronica
Brezetta Investigations
Miami, Florida

It's like trying to get comfortable in a refrigerator. If the air seeping through the waiting room vents wasn't frigid enough, the frosty receptionist lowers the temperature a few degrees more.

She's forty-ish, sleek everywhere – from her glossy black asymmetrical-bob to her slim pantsuit to her shiny red fingernails, all contrasting with the sort of 'down home' face you'd expect to find serving fried chicken at some roadside stand.

Veronica shivers and cinches her sweater tighter. She pokes buttons on her cell, preparing a text message she won't send until later.

The office phone rings.

"Brezetta Investigations. Please hold." The receptionist punches a button, returning the phone's receiver on its cradle. She squints at a raised computer monitor on a swing-out arm, currently displaying a celebrity gossip site, a blind-item headline, and a paparazzi photo of Bennifer.

The second-hand ticks on an antique wall clock. Twice. Three times. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen.

"Thank you for holding, how may I help you today?" The woman pauses, listens, then finger-walks through a filing drawer, extracts a manila folder, and flips it open. "I apologize, Mr. Lawson, our policy is to retain the all photographic negatives. We can make extra copies for a minimal fee, however. No sir, they must remain in-house. I understand you've forgiven your wife. Sure. Let me take a message, and I'll have Mr. Brezetta get back to you."

She hmm's and uh-huh's and okay's, jots down a note, and ends the call.

The waiting room reeks of wealth and prestige – burgundy leather upholstery, brass fixtures, mahogany woodwork. No telling how he does it, but Dean Brezetta, P.I. makes serious bank.

Veronica pushes herself up out of a nailhead-trimmed club chair and waddles over to the desk. "Hi again, do you know if it's going to be a while longer?"

The receptionist sighs, annoyed at being interrupted from reading about Britney and KFed's recent nuptials. "Mr. Brezetta is aware you're here. He'll see you as soon as he's off the phone."

"I just meant..." Veronica makes an embarrassed gesture toward the agency's entrance. "I noticed the sign on the hallway restroom when I got off the elevator, and..."

"One second." Lips flattened and expression pinched, the woman rifles through her desk drawer and hands over a silver key connected to an eight-inch plastic 'IF FOUND PLEASE RETURN TO BRAZETTA INVESTIGATIONS' placard.

"Pregnancy." Veronica points a thumb at her enormous belly. "Everything I drink goes straight through me."

-:¦:-:¦:-:¦:-:¦:-:¦:-:¦:-

Veronica locks the door behind her.

The public restroom is relatively well-maintained. Not quite as cold as the office, it's decorated in forty-six shades of tan ceramic tile and smells of tropical air freshener and pink soap.

She detaches the keychain and presses the key deep into the putty of her molding kit. The under-sink cabinet is unlocked. She crouches, placing a wireless receiver inside and cueing up a micro-cassette to record.

Not the best hiding spot, but it's only temporary.

Hauling herself back up by the edge of the countertop, she examines herself in the mirror, and wipes away a bead of sweat with a tri-fold paper towel. She adjusts her curly, brown wig – her favorite, as it makes her nearly invisible and provides a sense of security.

She'd been forced to wear the golden pageant hair this morning out of necessity. While not unheard of, a mousy brunette with blonde pubic hair would have been memorable. A source of curiousity.

Why do you want to disappear? Who are you hiding from?

Wasn't she already exposed enough? You can't get much more vulnerable than having a cold metal speculum inserted into your vagina. No matter how sympathetic the clinic doctor had been, no matter how gentle her hands, and soothing her tone, it had taken all Veronica's self-control to keep her knees from slamming closed like a bear trap.

On the upside, she's now in possession of a three-month supply of birth control pills. Just in case something happens with Logan.

PLEASE let something happen with Logan!

Veronica double-checks her appearance. Hair, thick-lensed glasses, baby bump facing forward. All good. She carefully extracts the key from the putty with her needle-nosed pliers and reattaches it to the ring.

Ripping a strip of duct tape from the roll she always keeps in her bag, she uses it to cover the door socket on her way out. That should get her back inside after her meeting with the detective.

-:¦:-:¦:-:¦:-:¦:-:¦:-:¦:-

Frostina the receptionist stuffs the keychain back in her desk drawer without a second-glance and stands. "Mr. Brezetta will see you now. Please follow me."

Phone in hand, Veronica hits send on the text message she'd typed-up in advance and follows.

Dean Brezetta, P.I. makes Keith Mars look a bit...schlubby in comparison. In his mid-forties, he's ruggedly handsome, with a strong nose, and curly dark hair, graying around the temples and ears. He wears an expensive linen suit in a tan shade, and no tie.

"Thank you for seeing me without an appointment!" Veronica gushes, shaking his hand.

"Of course, Ms...?"

"Mrs.," she corrects. "Victoria Ellis."

"Mrs. Ellis." He pumps her hand again. "Have a seat."

She carefully lowers herself onto the leather guest chair, leaving space for her bump.

Brezetta glances at a yellow sticky note and back to Veronica. "I understand this is a missing person case?"

"Person?" She giggles. "Although, he's a very intelligent boy, and always understands exactly what I'm saying, I'm afraid Fluffy is a poodle."

She hands over a small stack of pictures, taken this morning at a neighborhood dog park and developed at a nearby one-hour photo. "As you can see, he's quite distinctive for his breed." She reaches as if to point something out, knocking his stapler off the desk in the process.

"Sorry 'bout that. I'm such a klutz." She bends down, retrieving it from the floor (not easy, with the immense belly in her way).

It's a fancy, gold-plated number, so she won't be able to switch it out for the utilitarian Swingline.

Plan B, it is.

Straightening up, she fumbles to extract the existing bug from a stapler hidden in her handbag. "Fluffy comes from champion bloodlines. He's a direct descendant from Noble Roman's Droolius Ceaser. Notice his comportment?"

Is that even the right term?

Brezetta's eyes are glazing-over. He's already mentally dismissed her case and is just waiting for an opening to let her down easy.

"See how glossy his coat is? I feed him an organic grass-fed, raw-food diet. What if the thief tries to poison him with Alpo!" On her lap, she peels back the gold stapler's rubber bottom with her thumbnail, inserts the bug, then replaces it squarely on the mahogany desk. "I only left him in the car for ten minutes, but I had to crack the windows. I couldn't risk him getting heat stroke or something."

"Mrs. Ellis..." Brezetta exhales.

Her cell rings.

Right on cue.

Veronica raises one finger, mouths the word 'sorry', and accepts the call. "Hello?"

Logan's voice purrs in her ear. "Let me guess. You're about to get very excited that I found Fluffy?"

"Yes!" She answers, only partially faking her breathless eagerness. Damn, his voice does something to her. "Yes, that sounds about right!"

"Well considering this is the third time you've lost him today, I hope the old Fluffster is worth the trouble."

Brezetta rubs his own temples, and stares at something over her head.

"You found Fluffy? Is he wearing an adorable, rhinestone-encrusted, heart-shaped tag?" She giggles. "Well, of course he is. How else would you have known what number to call? Yes! Yes, text me the address and I'll be right there."

"I'll text you something, alright."

Tease. Don't make offers you're not prepared to keep, Logan.

"What a great idea! I'd love for you to send me a pic! Otherwise, I'll be there as soon as possible. And thank you!"

"I'm sure you'll find some way to demonstrate your gratitude."

Veronica disconnects the call, flashes Brezetta an embarrassed smile. "I'm so sorry for wasting your—"

He halts her apology with an upraised palm, shaking his head. "Don't be, Mrs. Ellis. I'm happy things worked out for you. Now, go bring Fluffy home."

Veronica stands, lets out one more excited squeal, and waddles out of the office.

She returns to the third-floor restroom, peels the duct tape from the door jamb, and turns the lock. Off comes the sweater and the large black maternity dress, the pregnancy pad, and the tote bag she'd stashed in the concave space between the padding and her body.

Retrieving her receiver from under the sink, she rewinds the cassette, and listens as Brezetta P.I. wonders aloud why anyone would want to impregnate a dingbat such as herself.

Douchebag.

She scans the room for potential nooks and hiding spots. Finally, after testing the vanity countertop for sturdiness, she hops up and stands. With a straight-head screwdriver, she detaches a high air-intake vent from the wall, places the recorder inside, and loosely replaces the screws.

Back on the ground, she re-dresses in her outfit from earlier – a brown skirt and pinkish blouse – and stuffs her maternity gear into the zipper tote.

With a little more than an hour to kill before the boys meet her at one of the local marinas, she has enough time to swing by the spy store.

As she exits the building, her phone buzzes with a new message from Logan. She opens it and rolls her eyes.

Not that kind of pic, you dork.

I really need to make that mustache disappear. Permanently.

Duncan
Day Ten
Titan's Trigger
Miami, Florida

"Back it up a little more. A bit..." Duncan crouches on the swim platform, while Logan coasts the final few feet into the slip. "That's good. Shut 'er off."

He reaches out to the dock, grasping one of the rust-pitted chrome cleats as the yacht's bumpers thump against the moorings.

A light breeze carries the scents of spicy meat and barbecue sauce, and a live Latin Jazz band plays somewhere nearby.

Right. The mall.

Burt Macklin, his boss and dockmaster on Nicholas Key, had recommended this mainland marina based on its affordable 4-hour day rate. "Of course, it's attached to that 'entertainment-slash-shopping complex', so you'll have to deal with teenagers and tourists."

All of whom own televisions and might recognize three fugitives from SoCal.

Logan descends from the helm, kneels, and – under Duncan's supervision – goes to work tying the knots they'd practiced before leaving the island. "So? How was my driving?"

"I think it's safe to say you won't be crashing our home, so..." Duncan trails off, unsure whether to be relieved at having one less burden or worried his friends won't need him for much of anything soon.

Other than running interference between them and our friendly neighborhood blackmailer, that is.

The criminal in question sits right above them, her black hair visible over the back of the white U-shaped settee. She'd discovered a motorized satellite television nested between the grill and the cockpit, and now reclines like Cleopatra-on-the-freaking-Nile, slurping takeout soda through a straw and watching trashy tabloid TV.

Not that she could've contributed much towards their first boat trip, but she should've at least asked.

Footsteps clump across the wooden dock, and Veronica's voice calls out, "Somebody's been practicing his rope skills."

Logan grins up at her. "I believe I promised you trust-exercises." He bobs his eyebrows.

Duncan doesn't catch the innuendo until one corner of her mouth lifts and her eyes slide to the left. He offers her a hand and helps her onto the platform.

With a quick scan for witnesses, she peels off her dark brown, 80's-perm style wig, massaging her scalp with the pads of her fingers. With her head turned like that...blonde hair, the blouse, and that skirt, it reminds him of…

Nausea churns his gut and Duncan averts his eyes. Pretends to stare at one of the dockside restaurants in the distance.

His Veronica used to wear that outfit. She worn it to one of their movie-dates and he remembers how the skirt's nubby texture had felt against his thumb.

Will it ever start getting easier?

Veronica seems oblivious to his distress. "So? When are we heading back?"

"Don't even think about making plans." Zadie pops her head up, like some kind of low-rent whack-a-mole. "Blue Eyes here, already promised to drive me to my place."

Promised? Is that what we're calling coercion these days?

Veronica tenses, the humor draining from her face. "You'll have to retire that moniker. Those blue eyes are a liability." She climbs the three stairs up to the aft deck.

"Liability?" With one last glance at Logan's knotwork, Duncan follows. "So…what? Should I pluck them out or something?"

Grimacing, she drops several canvas and plastic bags on the grill top. "Lower the drama needle three notches, or I'm going to think your BFF is rubbing off on you."

"I prefer the term stagecraft." Logan calls from below, and a smile flits over her lips.

"If you're suggesting we share those colored contacts..." Duncan gestures toward her face. "I don't think that's very sanitary."

"Eww. of course not," she agrees. "I picked you up your own pair."

"Don't you need a prescription?"

Veronica flashes him an enigmatic smile. "I have my methods."

With one hand on his chest, she maneuvers Duncan backwards until he's sitting on the bench opposite the mini-fridge. She squirts a glob of Purell on her palm, rubbing her hands together until the alcohol evaporates. Taking a FreshLook package from her shopping bag, she rips open the box and peels back the seal.

"Roll your eyes back in your head." She leans in – too close for comfort – and places a thin film against his right eyeball.

Duncan shudders. "That feels weird."

"Buck it up, cupcake. You know what else feels weird? Handcuffs."

"Handcuffs?" Logan pokes his head up over the railing.

"Back to your ropes, perv."

"All done." He clomps up the steps, moving to stand behind Veronica. "I'm efficient."

"Efficiently a pain in my ass." She shifts her focus back to Duncan. "Roll your left eye."

The second lens goes in more easily. In fact, he hardly notices them once he's blinked a few times.

"One more thing." Veronica retrieves a blond wig from a bag. Pale, short, and combed forward.

Duncan groans. "Did I get blitzed and ask for a makeover? Cause I'm blanking."

"You have been hitting the booze a tad more than usual." Guilt momentarily flickers in Logan's eyes. "I'm just glad that it's you and not me."

Veronica turns, addressing him over her shoulder, "Don't think you're off the hook. I have one for you, too."

"You'd think I'd remember if it was Christmas."

She straightens, takes a step back, and tilts her head, examining Duncan. "That looks...eerie."

"Um...thanks?"

He heads below-deck, checking himself in the bathroom mirror. On the plus side, he barely recognizes himself. On the downside, he sort-of resembles Neil Patrick Harris' younger, rounder-cheeked brother. Not great.

Shockingly – only not – Logan and Veronica are squabbling when he returns.

He's slouching on the same bench Duncan vacated, while she looms over him, adjusting his new wig over his scalp. "Will you stay still for two seconds?"

"Come on! I'm not some Ashton Kutcher/Jared Padalacki flippy-haired, emo DJ kind of guy!"

"You are now. If it helps, we can find you a striped hoodie. And I'm sure Dodger can lend you some black eyeliner."

In all honesty, the shaggy, jaw-length, mop sweeping inwards toward the face reminds Duncan more of surfer-style than emo. It's definitely the anti-Logan.

Zadie collects her purse and slumps against the mini-fridge watching the others. "I know you two enjoy your whole foreplay thing, but your girl has a point."

Logan huffs. "When I decide to start taking fashion advice from a kleptomaniac street urchin, you'll be the first to know."

Zadie shrugs. "Say what you want, but if you'd looked like that this morning, I might not've recognized you thirty seconds after you started tailing me. Great retro bicycle, by the way. You should add playing cards to the spokes for some real authenticity."

Veronica looks back-and-forth between the two, as if she can't decide whether to be smug or suspicious. "Feel like recapping, hubby?"

Logan rolls his eyes. "I'll fill you in later."

"Well, that's our cue." Zadie grabs Duncan by the arm. "Come on, Spike. Let's go pick up my stuff."

He turns a pleading gaze to Veronica, but she's busy fluffing Logan's wig, tugging strands forward to frame his face, while he sulks, eyes lifted to the sky, like a grade schooler being spit-cleaned by his mom in front of his friends.

Duncan clears his throat. "Um...Veronica?"

"Hmm?"

"Where's the Explorer?"

"Oh." She digs through her skirt pocket, produces car keys and the Nicholas Key guest pass, then points to the attached lot. "I parked it up there. Keep that island card out of her hands."

"Pretty sure she doesn't need it," Logan mutters.

Veronica continues. "We'll give you three hours before we head back home. Leave the truck in the long-term parking garage four blocks South of here when you're finished."

"Remind me again why we're leaving it here?"

Veronica counts on her fingers. "For one, it stands out amongst all the luxury cars and midlife crisis-mobiles on the island. Secondly, golf carts are more than sufficient for getting around. And finally, we'll need transportation on the mainland, regardless of whether we arrive by the yacht or ferry."

She's leaving something out, but before Duncan has an opportunity to press her for details, Zadie yanks on his arm. "Alrighty then. I guess we'll see you guys soon."

"I'll be counting the moments," Logan says.

Duncan waves and allows her to drag him away.

Zadie doesn't force a conversation in the truck, merely directs him through a maze of streets. She puts her feet up on the dash and he squirms internally, confident Veronica would not consider car detailing a valid line item in their budget.

He remains silent, even though the sound of her chewing ice makes him want to snatch her takeout cup and throw it out the window.

After which, I would promptly pull over and find a proper litter receptacle.

The road narrows to a single lane, trapping them behind a city bus. He closes the window, blocking out the squeal of air brakes and the noxious scent of exhaust.

Haven't we passed that church twice already?

Their surroundings grow steadily more rundown and bleak. Trash litters the ground, graffiti splashes across most vertical surfaces and security shutters protect the storefronts.

"See that brick building right past the light?" Zadie leans forward and points. "Park in front."

He pulls to the curb, and gapes. "You're joking, right? This place has to be condemned." The building is a square box of a structure, standing five stories high with most of the windows broken or boarded up.

Zadie opens the door, shifts one foot to the pavement. "Well? Come on."

He sets his jaw. "I'll just wait here?"

"You can't. I'll need help carrying my stuff out."

"Out to what? If we leave the truck unattended, it won't be here when we get back."

"That's what you think."

A small boy squats on the stoop, tossing a pair of red dice, and making tally marks in chalk. Zadie beckons him over, converses with him in a harsh-sounding language. "The car will be fine. Ivan here won't let anybody take it," she tells Duncan.

The boy, with his blond curls and huge eyes, can't be any older than nine or ten. "How's a little kid supposed to stop a car thief?"

Zadie gives him an indulgent wink. "Trust me. Nobody is going to touch this vehicle." She produces a Maglight, wrapping the loop around her wrist.

The overhead lightbulbs must've burnt out a decade ago, but enough daylight remains to conclude the building's interior is worse than its exterior. Sixties-era wallpaper sags limply from the walls, while Duncan can't even tell what color the carpet was originally. Green? Gray? Brown?

Zadie leads him through twisting corridors and – in one case – an actual hole in the wall, yet they can't outrun the pervasive stench of mildew, urine and vomit.

She opens the door to the back stairwell, and three rats skitter from the light. Duncan's stomach heaves. He can't go in there. He just...can't.

"Come on, SloMo." Zadie seizes him by the wrist, pulling him through the threshold. The door slams behind them, and everything goes dark. Too dark. She adjusts the beam on her flashlight, aiming at the stairs, and they climb.

Two floors up, three preschool-aged children play unsupervised on the landing, while marijuana smoke floats in from the opening where a door used to be. After that, as the darkness grows even inkier, Duncan's skin feels like it's tightening around his bones, and his flesh crawls. He wants to reach out, for a hand, a shoulder, anything. Except it's her, and she would only ridicule him.

His heart hammers in his chest, and just when he thinks he's going to scream his lungs out, they make it to the top landing, and Zadie shoves open the door to the fifth-floor hallway.

It's cleaner up here, but that could be the dwindling daylight.

At the far end of the corridor, a woman kneels before a man, head bobbing rhythmically.

Duncan averts his eyes, mentally willing Zadie to lower her flashlight. Instead, she heads straight for them.

"Move it, Lina. You know you're not supposed to be up here."

The couple breaks apart, the woman dropping her eyes, while the man tucks himself into his pants. There's a furtive aspect to their gazes, as if they fear the wrath of scrawny, 5'4" Zadie. She walks between them, and they audibly exhale once she's passed.

She stops at the last door in the hall, plucks a key from her bra, and uses it on a series of three locks. Remembering his manners, Duncan reaches for the handle, but she slaps his hand.

"It's booby-trapped. You'll be zapped." She twists the knob, opens it only a few inches and squeezes her hand through the opening.

He hears a creak and a ping. Something drops, and Zadie swings the door open. A contraption constructed of a car battery, wires, and a foil-wrapped clothespin is arranged on a console table to the right of the entrance.

Zadie circles the interior, lighting a handful of lamps, and Duncan's breath catches.

From his glimpses of the building's other inhabitants and their living spaces, he'd anticipated more of the same. A bare mattress on the floor, and maybe a couple old suitcases.

The reality is almost overwhelming. It's like...a French Bordello meets Tesla's lab.

A camp stove sits on the wood-slab counter that divides a tiny kitchenette from the rest of the space. The wall behind the sink is a dull shade of blackish-gray, covered in neat, chalk-written recipes. Above that, a truly impressive spice collection lines shallow, handmade shelves.

A heavy-duty extension cord – painted fuchsia and bedazzled with rhinestones – leads from the apartment-sized refrigerator to the dining nook, where it disappears into the back of a portable power station. One of six, as it happens, each brightly-colored and arranged across a low shelving unit.

LEDs flicker on three of them. Zadie kicks off her shoes next to the door, then lowers the fringed shades and powers-on the remaining three. The bathroom illuminates, and a fan whirs to life in another room.

He's seen one of these power stations before. Back in seventh grade, Mr. Casablancas had taken Duncan, Logan and Dick camping, insisting they "rough it" in tents, rather than using a motor home. Mrs. Casablancas – second to bear the name – had brought along something like this for powering everything she couldn't live without. Like her hair dryer. Her coffee maker. Her television.

"What are those for?" Duncan indicates a neatly-bundled group of cables running out the back of the power-stations, through a two-inch gap in the window, and upward.

"Oh. I installed a couple solar panels up on the roof. Small ones. Nothing fancy, but they're enough to keep the batteries charged."

Nothing fancy?

The summer before Sophomore year, Duncan had presented his father with an essay on the advantages of switching to solar energy at home and at Kane Software. Billionaire Jake Kane, had laughed the idea off. Said he might consider it once the panels came down in price.

Yet this two-bit hustler acts like it's no big deal.

More heavy-duty extension cords snake off in every direction – red, pink, and purple, secured to the floor with brackets.

"Impressive. Who set this all up for you?"

"Want to hear a secret?"

"Sure."

Zadie pretends to look for eavesdroppers. She shields the right corner of her mouth with her hand, lowers her voice to a whisper, and speaks out of the left side. "Girls can Science too."

Duncan sighs, moves away to inspect a hand-painted collage of Paris covering half the living room wall. Soft sepia tones capture the cafes and architecture, with more recognizable landmarks in the distant background.

He skims his fingertip over a street lamp. "Did you paint this?"

"A friend did."

"It's really nice."

She accepts the compliment with a nod.

"You ever been?"

"To Paris? No. Not yet." She goes to work emptying the contents of the refrigerator – a few Styrofoam takeout containers and some limp vegetable – into a trash can.

A tall mirror leans against one exposed-brick wall. Artfully arranged on an indigo-painted backdrop, small mirrors – round and square – mingle with vintage black-and-white photos of Can-Can dancers and ballerinas in ornate, gilded frames.

"Do you have running water?" he asks out of curiosity.

"No. Before you ask, I have a dozen gallons of spring water in the kitchen – lugged them all up myself." She makes a muscle, and her bicep is surprisingly buff for such a twig of a girl. "There's a chemical toilet in the bathroom for emergencies, but usually, I just use the employee restroom across the street. I have a key to the back door." She points out the window, and Duncan squints to read the sign: Odessa Deli. "Also, I shower at the gym most mornings. Any more questions?"

"Um...No?"

"Good. Then I'll start packing. Can you run back down to the truck and—"

"No. I can't." His voice sounds shrill to his own ears.

"Why not?"

"Because..." Warmth floods his cheeks. "You saw what they were doing out in the hall."

She offers a little who-cares shrug. "Blowjob for cash?"

He cringes at the crude word.

Zadie's eyes light up, and in this moment, she reminds him of Logan. She takes a step towards him, speaking deliberately. "Blowwwwjob."

He turns away.

"Blowjob, blowjob, blowjob," she sings.

Duncan exhales, crossing his arms over his chest. Could she be more childish?

"Nobody's ever gone down on you? Given you head?" She tilts her head, enunciating each syllable. "No lip stick on the dip stick?"

"That's disgusting."

"Fa-Fa-Fellatio! Fa-Fa-Fellatio!" She sings in the tune of that opera song from Verdi's "la Donna Mobile".

Ignoring her, Duncan gingerly perches on the edge of a fuchsia velvet Chesterfield sofa, centered over a violet oriental rug. Above, a crystal chandelier drips with beads and battery-operated Christmas lights. Twin scarlet lamps edged in beaded fringe glow on the end tables.

Zadie heads into her room, calling over her shoulder, "Come on!"

Duncan follows like the obedient packhorse he is.

The bedroom carries the same decorating motif as the other room.

Zadie rifles through the drawers of an antique dressing table, positioned to the right of the door. Tassels hang from its hardware, and beads drape the upper half of the mirror. A silver tray displays artfully-arranged perfume bottles with French labels.

The bench is upholstered in crimson Victorian tufted-velvet (perfectly matching the wallpaper on the accent wall behind the headboard).

Her twin-sized brass bed is neatly-made in gold brocade and a handful of fancy-shaped pillows. Another chandelier – painted black – hangs above, more beads, more Christmas lights.

The other walls are a soft golden yellow, decorated with small mirrors, and vintage Moulin Rouge posters.

Zadie flings-open an armoire, continuing her childish antics, while draping clothing across her bed. "Bobbing the knob...playing the skin flute...swallowing the sword..."

Duncan takes a seat on a purple velvet fainting couch. It's an exercise in futility, but he asks, "Can you not?"

"Not what? Talk about the beej? The blowie? The knob job?"

He groans, wrinkling his nose in distaste.

"How about charming the snake?" She plays an invisible flute. "Copping a doodle? Honkin' the bobo? Mouth-to-junk-resuscitation?"

"Unbelievable. I never thought anybody could surpass Logan in immaturity, but he wasn'teven this bad when he was eleven."

Zadie grins, goes up on her toes, and executes three pirouettes, hair whipping out around her. "hummer...Hummer...HUMMER!"

Wow. Just...

It's astounding that such a vulgar person could execute something so graceful.

"You're trained," he observes.

"I've taken a lesson or two. In another life." She shrugs, and – perhaps just to fuck with him – moves to her closet en pointe.

Duncan gets up, walks to the window, and peers down to the street below. "Why do you live this way?"

"Excuse me?" Zadie's brow furrows, offended. "What's wrong with my place?"

"Nothing. That's not what I'm saying." He actually finds the apartment interesting and resourceful, if a little – okay a lot – tacky. "It's just...I mean, your furniture and decor couldn't have been cheap. You have several grand's worth of equipment out there, counting the solar panels. Why wouldn't you just save your money and get a place with functioning utilities?"

"Because I literally can't? And anyway, why bother?" Zadie returns with a handful of boots. "Someday, once I've made my Big Score, I'll sell all that stuff and buy a house. In the meantime, why would I pay rent?"

Duncan can think of plenty of reasons.

"Are we your big score?"

She flashes her teeth. "Please. The only thing you idiots are likely to score for me are aiding-and-abetting charges. Let's just say, I havea few irons in the fire."

"Like marrying a rich man?"

"Wow, borrowing power from a man. What a lofty goal." Zadie rolls her eyes. "I would rather build my own."

A shiver runs up Duncan's spine.

"To answer the first part of your question, I did it all myself." She sweeps an arm out.

"Did what?"

"The furniture." She indicates her armoire, her dressing table. "It's all second-hand, or third-hand, or ninth-hand. I restored most of it with sandpaper, elbow grease, and wood stain. The reupholstering was done by somebody who owed me a favor."

"How did you learn all that?"

"Um…Library books?" She inclines her head as if he's stupid. "You can start hauling things down to the truck."

"I'll just wait until you're ready."

"Go ahead. I'll be a while."

"I can't." If she thinks he's taking those stairs alone, in the dark, she's crazy. "I'll get lost. And what if those...people are still out there?"

"That would be the longest blowjob ever, but I'm sure if you slide her a twenty, she'll suck you off next."

He scowls. "That's—"

"Disgusting." She finishes for him and rolls her eyes. "I get it. I know your type."

"My type? What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're that guy who classifies women into two types: sweet virginal ingenues and dirty whores. Bet I know which category I would fall into."

Duncan's head snaps back. "That's...wow. Only one of us in this room is categorizing, right now. I'll go wait for you out there."

He's almost through the doorway when Zadie sings, "Hoover, nobody does it like YOU!"

He turns back. "What?"

She purses her lips, making a vacuum suction face.

Gross.

Laughter follows him as he exits to the living room.

Several small gadgets made up of shiny rods and gears are displayed on a table at the back of the couch. Duncan examines them, unsure if they're functional or decorative.

A purple-painted door catches his attention. He twists the knob, expecting a linen cabinet, but instead finds a second bedroom.

He switches on a lamp next to the door. The room is plain compared to the rest of the apartment. One white particle-board bed, twin-sized and covered with a blue and green striped quilt. A matching dresser and nightstand. A musty smell of disuse lingers.

Duncan enters, examining a row of books on the headboard shelf. He picks up a sketchbook, flips through page after page of pencil sketches – mostly cityscapes and collages. Good stuff. Probably the same hand responsible for the mural in the other room.

A standard cork bulletin board hangs on the tan wall over a navy blue painted desk.

A handful of photos suspended from pushpins, all show a good-looking, slightly awkward, dark-haired boy around his own age. He poses with his parents and younger siblings, with another smiling teenaged boy, with Zadie.

A green thumbtack secures an aged yellow sticky note.

Aleks,

3 days of dinners are in the fridge (glass containers with red lids). Go to Viktor's for breakfast and lunch. The alarm code is 582398 (enter it quickly and rearm it when you leave). Don't forget to water my plants and clean up. I'll see you when I get back Sunday.

Try not to miss me too much.

Love, Z.

"What do you think you're doing in here?" Zadie lurks in the doorway, an over-stuffed duffel bag at her feet.

"I thought it was a closet." Duncan touches the note. "Who's Aleks? Your boyfriend?"

"No." She moves to the bulletin board, and her hands shake as she removes one of the photos. Her thumb idly strokes it as a vacant look comes into her eyes. "My best friend."

"Did you have a falling out?"

She swallows, and her expression hardens. "Mind your own business. I need you to carry that bag."

It takes three trips to transfer Zadie's things to the SUV. Three trips through dark hallways and darker stairwells.

While Duncan loads the last of her footwear and handbags into the trunk, Zadie beckons to the little boy she'd spoken to earlier. She converses with him about who-knows-what in another language – Is that Russian? – the boy laughs, and she ruffles his hair.

She turns to Duncan. "Pay him, Spike."

Why am I paying him? He checks his wallet; not fast enough, apparently, as Zadie snatches it away, slips the kid a twenty, then hands it back.

"I need to go back up and re-arm the door," she says, "Wait for me in the car."

"Fine." No arguments here. Duncan climbs behind the wheel, starts the vehicle, and cranks up the AC. He yanks off the itchy blond wig, setting it on the dash while he scratches his scalp.

A knock on the glass startles him. An elderly man, round-faced with a bald head and a thick salt-and-pepper beard glares at him.

He pushes the button and the window descends with a whir.

The man's flip-phone makes the tell-tale sound of a camera shutter. A string of words come from his mouth.

Duncan offers him a helpless shrug. "I don't understand. I don't speak..."

The man switches to English. "Who are you?"

"Um...Declan? Why?"

"Zadie's a good girl, but whatever she told you, she's only seventeen."

"Okay? So am I. I mean...wait. No, it's not like that. I'm not interested in her like that . At ALL."

"Why you here?"

"She's just...I don't know...bossing me around, I guess."

"Ahhh...she has dirt on you." the man's eyes twinkle. He looks around and lowers his voice. "You be careful. Anything happens to Zenaida, her uncles will kill you."

Zenaida?

Duncan swallows. "Kill me?"

"They'll never find your body."

Zadie returns, and appears to chastise the old man. He grins, and they embrace.

She gives him a chaste kiss on the lips, they chat for a minute and then she places a key in his hand, closing his fingers around it. She kisses his cheek goodbye, then circles around the vehicle, and gets in.

As they pull away from the curb, she snickers.

"What's so funny?"

"I'd call it more ironic than funny, but I just spent five minutes convincing Viktor I'm safe with you, and that you're not a murderer."

"Oh." That stings. Kinda.

"When you actually are."

"Yeah, I got that." Duncan picks up speed and passes a slow-moving vehicle. "But that's nothing to you, right? With your uncles."

Zadie's eyes sharpen. "What did he tell you about my uncles?"

"Something about them never finding my body."

"That Viktor." She rolls her eyes. "Such a comedian. Don't listen to him."

"I had a feeling he was messing with me."

"Oh, he was. In your case, they would just make it look like a suicide."

Duncan cuts his eyes to the side. "That's reassuring."

Other than Zadie's directions back to the marina, the conversation dries up.

Questions swirl in his brain. Everything he learned tonight, and everything he didn't. How does a seventeen-year-old girl learn to rig-up electricity? And why? Where is Aleks now? Who is Viktor to her? What did she say to him? More importantly, who are her uncles, and why doesn't she live with one of them?

She's an enigma.

At a red-light Zadie turns at him. "Can I ask you a serious question?"

"Yeah. Sure."

"What is your stance on cunnilingus?"

Duncan stares as she cackles at her own joke, wiggles her tongue at him.

Veronica
Day Ten
Miami, Florida

A copper-haired toddler squats on the fountain's rim, giggling as she splashes tiny hands through the water streams.

Veronica shares a smile with the mother, whose firm grip on a belt loop, keeps the child from toppling in.

She turns back to Logan. "So, these Quartermaine twins are her real marks, and we're just some kind of...what? Cover story?"

"Seems that way." Logan finishes his steak kebab, leaving a stickful of onions and mushrooms. He wipes his fingers on a napkin, crumples of the foil wrapper into a ball, and tosses his trash in the nearest garbage can.

Veronica snags one of his French fries. "You really should try them with vinegar."

"I'll pass, but you can have the rest of mine." He hands her the cup.

"Don't mind if I do." She sifts through napkins and stiff salt packets in her own bag, until her fingers close on the last malt vinegar packet. Biting it open at the corner, she squirts the pungent liquid over the fries. "It's like we legitimize her being on the island or something. If anybody questions her, she can just point to 'daddy's yacht'."

"That sounds about right." Logan closes his eyes, tilts his head back to the sky, and stretches his legs long.

Damn, he's pretty. Even with the emo hair.

The boys aren't the only ones rocking new 'dos tonight. Thanks to a buy two/get one sale, Veronica's currently sporting Ashley Simpson-esque hair. Dark and layered, its side-swept angle partially covers her eyes, while the longer strands fall jagged between her chin and shoulders. The effect is surprisingly flattering, as well as being complimentary to Logan's. They're a regular matched-pair.

"Da Da!" The toddler squeals. Jumping off the fountain's edge, she gallops to a beardy gentleman with vivid red hair. He sweeps her up and peppers her face with smooches. The mother joins them, and the family strolls off hand-in-hand.

Veronica finishes the fries, crumples the cup, and shoves it into the empty Jimmy's Bar-B-Q bag.

They'd left the yacht minutes after Duncan and Zadie, intending to grab a quick dinner. When none of the options at the open-air mall enticed them enough to stop, they continued inland for several more blocks, eventually following their noses to an indoor/outdoor grille. They ordered their food to-go and brought it to this small city park.

Logan cracks an eyelid. "You ready to head back?"

"Gimme a minute to digest."

He gets to his feet, grabs her paper bag, and tosses it in a green metal trash can.

"Why did I eat so much?" Veronica whines. She extends her belly as far as it will go and pats her 'food baby'. "Look, no padding, still preggers."

"Pregnant?" Logan snorts. "How did that happen?"

"Spontaneously. Yesterday morning, I think, during your oh-so-helpful demonstration of how to properly use a high platform bed." She touches her lip with her fingertip. "Or maybe it was this morning when you came out of the shower with that little towel wrapped around your hips. I can't be positive."

Logan's eyes crinkle. "Remind me to start locking the bathroom door."

"Pshhht. Like some dinky lock could keep me out." Veronica extends out a hand, and he tugs her to her feet. She gathers her messenger bag and her nearly-empty soda.

She still needs to Google Zadie against everything Logan learned today, but that'll have to wait until they're back on the island and connected to Wi-Fi. In the meantime, the night is balmy and bright. A perfect evening for taking a walk with the cute boy who makes her insides tingle.

Logan's been unusually quiet since she returned from her errands. Not cold by any means, just...distracted. Lost in thought.

She eases closer and bumps his shoulder. "Penny for your thoughts, Hubby?"

"Community property says your penny is my penny, Wifey." He accompanies the statement with 'yours-and-mine' gestures. "You'll have to find something better to bargain with."

Several not-so-innocent suggestions come to mind, but he's sidestepped her last few innuendos. She tries directness for a change. "Is something bothering you?"

"No, I'm fine." Logan presses a gentle kiss to her temple and wraps an arm around her waist. She reciprocates.

Two blocks away from the marina, a glowing 'Pawn Shop' sign on the opposite side of the street catches her eye. Just that. Nothing more. Not 'Ed's Pawn Shop', or 'Pawn de Replay', or 'Rook takes Pawn'.

Whatever happened to creativity?

"Come on." Veronica grasps his hand.

Logan digs in his heels, his face rearranging into pretentious snob (which is a known quantity, at least). "Why would we willingly go in there?"

"Oh, come on, Princess. If you ever want to be a P.I., you'll have to get used to places like that." Veronica tugs his hand again, and he relents.

"I'm still iffy on that career path. But...I'm not exactly swimming in alternative options either."

A bell dings as she opens the door and steps inside. Like every pawn shop in America, the space is dimly lit by flickering fixtures, and overflowing with junk.

Logan wrinkles his nose, not accustomed to that suffocating, musty smell of old things. If she'd hoped he might take to the experience like he had Target, she would be disappointed. He runs his fingertip over old VCRs, Toaster Ovens, and box fans, as if giving them the white glove test.

Veronica lifts some antique binoculars to her eyes, adjusts the view, and then sets them back down. She has a functional pair back on the boat. She doesn't need more

Behind her, Logan lets out a gleeful, "HEE!"

She turns around. "What?"

He nods to where stack-after-stack of the DVD, Vendetta Road sells for two bucks a pop. "Dad's version of Mad Max. Box office disaster. Should I tell the guy he's overcharging?"

"Nah, I'm sure it's a popular film in some hate-watching circles. C'mon." She takes his elbow, leading him to the counter at the far end of the long, skinny, space.

"Howzitgoin'?" The proprietor appears to be in his sixties. Lanky, in a bluish, unbuttoned flannel over a white tee shirt. His weathered face has a 'been-there-bought-the-postcard' air to it, and he wears his shock of white hair in a high pompadour. "Feel free to look around."

"Actually..." Veronica drags Logan to the glass display case. "We're looking for wedding bands."

"Congratulations. When's the big day?" The man asks without interest or inflection.

"Oh, we married months ago." Veronica pulls Logan's arm around her neck, snuggles into him. "We didn't have money for rings at the time. It was kind of a sudden thing at the Justice of the Peace."

The man unlocks the jewelry case, his cloudy eyes shifting to her stomach, searching for a tell-tale bump.

Veronica waves his implication away. "No. Nothing like that. It's just..." She lifts a starry-eyed gaze to Logan. "When you know you're meant to be, that you would happily spend the rest of your life with that one special person, why fight it? Why let something stupid like money get in the way? Ya know?"

Something flickers to life in Logan's eyes – something that steals her breath and makes her heart flutter – then abruptly dims when he realizes she's only playing the game, and not actually confessing her love.

Way to go, Veronica.

She twists, clasping her hands around his back and squeezing. Leaning back slightly, she locks eyes with him, ensuring he knows her next words are for his benefit. "I've known this guy since childhood, yet every single day, he still manages to surprise me with his intelligence, his bravery, his generosity. I'll be so proud to show the world he's all mine."

His face takes on that schmoopy expression, and he kisses her temple. "Always."

If only she could promise that in return. It would make everything so much easier.

The pawnbroker breaks the moment. "Well, let's get you sized." He produces a jingling sizing gauge tool, eyeballs Veronica's hand, and selects one of the rings.

She slips her finger through it. "Fits perfectly. You're good at that."

"Years of experience, young lady." The man winks. He retrieves a velvet tray from the display case. "Any of the bands in the first three rows should fit."

Veronica tries on a simple gold band, while he sizes Logan. It looks fine, but the man catches her cringing at the price tag.

He considers for a moment, then lays a strongbox on the counter, and unlocks it. Inside, hundreds of golden rings are divided among quart-sized Ziplocs. "I'll tell you what, I'll sell you any TWO of these bands for an even hundred."

Logan peers in at the contents. "Why are you selling them so cheap? Are they fake?"

"No, they're real gold, but they're all inscribed. I haven't gotten around to having them melted down, yet." He presents a bag labeled 'Men's 9' to Veronica, and 'Women's 5' to Logan. "Why don't you choose inscriptions for each other?"

Veronica selects a ring at random, squints at the inner engraving. "Do not remove."

"Uh oh." Logan makes a 'yikes' face. "Somebody's in trouble."

The pawnbroker powers on a magnifying lamp, swinging it outward to help them read.

Veronica carefully empties her entire bag onto the scratched glass and sorts through the bands. The majority are inscribed with names and dates – 'Darryl and Jeanne', 'Steve and Irma', 'DC + JS' – these, Veronica returns to the bag.

Others – those with more generic inscriptions – she slides to a small pile on her left.

"To Have and to Hold," she reads aloud.

"More like, To Discard and Dump." Logan says, then recites one from his own bag, dramatically. "From Here to Eternity."

"Or the closest pawn shop, whichever comes first. How about, 'Truly, Madly, Deeply'? Wonder what their wedding song was?"

"Should've been, 'Fleetingly, Erroneously, Provisionally'" Logan responds, adding, "Here's a classic: 'My love, my life, my friend'."

"My adulterous ex-wife."

Veronica's pile grows larger: 'Always', 'Grow old with me', 'Hers', 'How Do I Love Thee', 'Dreams Do Come True', 'From this moment on'.

A wave of melancholy washes over her, making her chest tighten and her throat itchy. "Maybe this was a bad idea."

"What? Why?"

"All of these...broken promises and ruined forevers." She flutters a hand over her discard pile. "What if they're a bad omen for us? Maybe we should buy our wedding bands new? Where they're not tainted with failure?"

"Bad omen?" Logan tilts his head, brow furrowing, and she realizes how crazy she sounds. This is only a game. They're merely reinforcing their cover story, not taking marriage vows.

Anyway, isn't she the one who's reluctant to make promises or guarantees?

"I'm sorry. Don't listen to me." She releases an embarrassed huff of breath. "Carry on."

Logan glances down at the wedding band in his palm and closes his hand around it.

"You've found one already?" She discards another ring, and another.

He nudges his left shoulder into a shy half-shrug. "I think so?"

She rejects four more bands. The fifth, sends a jolt of 'rightness' through her. This is the one.

"So, everything from this bag should fit him?" she asks the proprietor.

"They should, but I can double-check it on my mandrel."

She hands him the band, and he lowers it over a cone shaped rod engraved with measurements, nods. "Yep. It'll fit." He inspects the engraving under the magnifying light and arches a brow. "...interesting choice."

"I think so."

Logan hands over his selection, and the man repeats the process – except his inscription earns him an approving nod.

The proprieter rings them up, and Veronica pays him with a crisp hundred and a twenty for tax.

"Will you be exchanging these now, or should I bag them up?"

She considers. Chances are fifty-fifty of Logan making a production out of this. He could either shrug it off as no big deal or arrange a ring-exchanging ceremony complete with string section. He's unpredictable that way.

Veronica's personal preference is to keep things low-key. "I'll take them."

She hands Logan the smaller ring.

Giggling, she gazes dreamily into his eyes, speaks on a sigh. "I still do, Baby."

Logan smirks, giving her body a pervy once-over. "And I'd still do you, too."

She mouths the word, 'Tease'. Logan flashes a teeth-baring grin, then grows serious as he grasps her ring between his index finger and thumb. He holds it under the glass of the magnifying lamp and can't seem to meet her eyes.

Is Logan Echolls being...bashful?

She leans in, reads the tiny inscription. 'It Was You All Along'.

A shiver ripples through her. Everything in her chest grows heavy and tight, and she can feel her pulse fluttering inside her throat.

"Logan...?" Her voice trembles, and she doesn't even care if she used his real name. She moves Lynn Echolls' engagement ring to her right hand, and gives him her left, expectantly.

He slides the ring on her finger, finally meeting her eyes. "You like it?"

"I love it. Thank you." Her own choice seems juvenile in comparison. "I should pick another one for you."

"What? Why?"

"Because...something worthier. Something more..."

He shakes his head. "I want the one you picked."

"Why? I can do better."

"Because I saw the look in your eyes when you found it. It's the right one."

"But...yours is so...heartfelt, and mine is just..." She offers him a helpless shrug.

He nudges her chin with his thumb. "I know you. If I cared about sonnets or something, I would be with Elizabeth Barret Browning, okay?"

"She's a hundred years in the grave." She breathes in. "But fine."

Exhaling, Veronica raises Logan's band to the light, illuminating two words. 'Pinky Swear'.

Logan reacts with a sharp intake of breath. His eyes take on a haunted expression, and his bottom lip quivers as he extends his hand.

Veronica slides the band on his ring finger, and then his right hand is in her hair, and he's pulling her to his mouth.

The kiss is white-hot and tastes like lemonade. His lips are gentle, but his splayed fingers press into her scalp as if he's holding back a torrent.

It ends as fast as it begins, and then his forehead is pressed to hers, his eyes closed, and his chest rising and falling.

A laugh bubbles up from Veronica. "I now pronounce us still husband and wife."

Logan hauls her into a bear hug. His mouth dips to her right ear, whispers. "I'm sorry for that. I shouldn't have—"

"Do I need to roll out a welcome mat or something? I'm not complaining."

"Still..." He exhales. "I had to. For that. And for those times when I didn't. When maybe I should've."

"Make it up to me. Let's do that some more. With tongue, this time."

"You're killing me." His chest rumbles with laughter against hers.

He releases her and takes a step back. "So... should we toss rice on ourselves or something?"

The proprieter shrugs. "Can't help you there, man. But I'll throw in some of those little wedding bubbles if you'd like."

Veronica shakes her head. "I think we're good."

"We'd definitely like," Logan says.

Of course, he would.

Out on the sidewalk, Logan blows a steady stream of bubbles overhead, pausing only to whistle Mendelssohn's "Wedding March".

His enthusiasm is contagious. Passers-by smile indulgently, even the cluster of grouchy-looking old men playing chess on a pair of street-side tables. A tiny Asian toddler claps her hands and tries catching the bubbles. With the permission of her parents, Logan gifts her the bottle. Of course, his bag holds eleven more containers.

Veronica
Day Ten
Titan's Trigger
Miami, Florida

Clothing and shoes litter every surface of the yacht's aft deck, and for one terrifying moment, the acid tang of fear burns Veronica's throat.

Has Liam found them? Is this some kind of message?

She swings around, flinging an arm wide. "What the hell happened here?"

"What do you think?" Duncan's voice comes from behind her. He climbs up from the swim platform, Zadie following, her arms stuffed with coats and jackets. "While you two were off having fun, we had to take three trips to bring her stuff back from the truck. Wish you'd answered your phones, we could've used some help."

"Not likely," Veronica mutters, still dumbstruck by the sheer volume of Zadie's possessions.

Logan circles the boat's interior flipping on courtesy-lights. "You actually think we would lift a pinky for that grifter? That's adorable."

Duncan drops a duffel bag with a heavy thud. "Real helpful, Logan." He descends down to the dock and pulls car keys from his front pocket. "I need to go move the Explorer to the long-term parking garage. Back in a few minutes."

"Take Dodger with you!" Veronica yells, but her request goes unanswered as his footsteps trail away. She redirects her annoyance to Zadie, currently crouched low and digging through the mini-fridge. "Seems like overkill to bring your entire wardrobe, when you'll only be here for a couple days."

Zadie rises, clutching an amber bottle. "I like having options. But...if it bothers you that much, I can take it all back and just wear your stuff." She blinks.

Veronica grits her teeth. "At least clean everything up before you start pounding our beer."

"Sure thing, Roomie." Zadie salutes.

Logan glances up from perusing a jumble of handbags draped in a pile over the grill. "These are all real."

Zadie's forms an 'O' with her mouth, covering it with her hand and feigning shock. "But...they told me they were knockoffs!"

Other than recognizing the signature Louis Vuitton print and the Prada logo, Veronica couldn't tell a genuine purse from a fake if her job depended on it.

Logan (apparently) can. He grins at her, as he inspects an oversized black messenger bag. The strap features a double-row of silver studs and is wide enough to support a heavy load. "It's Romeo Scavo."

Despite experiencing the first tinglings of lust, Veronica rolls her eyes. "Don't tell me it's MARS by Scavo."

"Too soon. Your signature line will probably hit stores in time for the Winter line." He winks and tosses her the purse.

Up close, the bag is flawlessly constructed, smooth to the touch, and thicker than expected. That new-leather smell permeates from it, and the tags are still attached.

"That's your rent." Logan addresses Zadie in a no-arguments tone.

She smiles pleasantly. "My silence is my rent."

Veronica shakes her head. "I don't want it."

She really really wants it.

"Your silence plus that handbag." He stares a challenge at her. "Go ahead though, call the cops on us. If one bag – clearly stolen – is worth losing your meal ticket."

"It's all yours." Zadie says, so cheerfully, you'd think she'd offered it of her own free will.

Veronica waves a hand to get Logan's attention. "I said I don't want it." She drapes it over her shoulder, testing the strap's length and the way it falls against her hip.

One side of his mouth curls up. "You should carry it anyway."

"What does it matter?" She addresses Logan, but Zadie answers.

"For the same reason I carry them. To belong to the club."

Doubtful. From what Veronica's observed so far, the girl couldn't care less what others thought of her. "Yeah, well I've never been much of a joiner."

Zadie shrugs, scoops up a handful of clothing, and heads below-deck.

Logan toes at Veronica's shoe. "Remember those two women at the grocery store yesterday?"

"The ones who stared at me like I was a bad strain of salmonella, there to contaminate their organic produce?" Veronica's eyes narrow in remembered anger. "A purse isn't going to fix that."

"It's a start."

"Is this Groundhog Day?" Duncan hops aboard, handing Veronica the car keys. "Because I'm pretty sure you guys were complaining about that the last time I snuck up on you."

Veronica inhales, mentally preparing a tirade on privileged rich boys, silver spoons, and the derision he'll never have to face.

Logan squeezes her shoulder, aiming a warning glance at Duncan. "Leave it be. I'm the one who brought it up."

Duncan shrugs and changes the subject. "You planning on driving us back home?"

Logan hesitates. "Why don't you do it? Let me practice some more in daylight, before I try piloting at night."

"Okay, fair enough." Duncan climbs up to the helm, then turns back. "You want to untie the lines?"

"Sure. Give me a sec," Logan waits for Duncan to withdraw, then nudges Veronica's foot and swings an arm toward the white leather booth. "So... you and me? A little wine and stars? Wind in our hair?"

"If you're asking me to stay on deck for the ride back, there are about..." she pretends to calculate in her head. "...forty less corny ways to say it."

"Is that a no?" He looks up from under his lashes.

"It's a 'substitute coffee for the wine, and I'm all yours'."

"Deal."

Veronica straightens up. "I'll go brew a pot. Back in a few minutes."

She descends to the galley, where she measures out coffee grounds, fills the water tank, and hits the power button. While the machine gurgles and drips, she hides the box of donuts she'd purchased on the way back to the yacht.

Zadie's voice floats out from a three-inch opening in her stateroom door. "Don't worry about it! Everything's fine."

Veronica creeps closer, not even slightly ashamed at eavesdropping on her phone call.

"Dima. Dima." A giggle. "DIMA, DAMMIT, will you shut up for a second? Listen, he's not going to hurt me. I swear. He's harmless." She pauses. Listens. "He was saving his friend. Don't pretend you've never hurt anybody in defense of somebody else. Dima... Dima! It wasn't murder, okay?"

After a minute of silence, Zadie speaks again, colder this time. "No, I'm not going to tell him, and you're not either. Because my decisions are none of his damn business...don't even think about it. I know where all your skeletons are buried...no, he made his choice, and he gets no say in my life...Because he's a heartless bastard, obvi..."

While Veronica can't hear the other side of the conversation, she assumes Dima has given up on speaking to the mysterious 'him' when Zadie's voice grows warm and teasing again.

"Trust me, I know what I'm doing. I was trained by the best...No, that's not flattery, it's a fact. You taught me well, Uncle Obi Wan. I love you too, and I'll check in soon. Give Uncle Anton a kiss for me."

As Zadie says her goodbyes, Veronica tiptoes back to the galley. She retrieves two mugs from the cabinet and adds cream and sugar.

Zadie emerges from her stateroom. "Coffee at this time of night? Do you ever sleep?"

Ignoring the question, Veronica reluctantly holds out the Scavo bag. "Put this with the rest of your junk."

Zadie crosses her arms, refusing to accept it. "When I said it was yours, it wasn't because I'm afraid of Lord Byron up there. I never back down from threats when I know I'm right, but I'm also not too stubborn to reassess a situation."

"And?"

"I mean, look at it!" She waves a hand at the bag, at Veronica. "That whole butch thing? It wants to belong to you. It's begging. In fact, maybe that's why I was compelled to liberate it from Nordstroms. So I could unite it with its rightful owner. I'm like a hero or something."

"You are so weird."

"Maybe, but I'm your weirdo, now." Zadie blows her a kiss and continues to the staircase. She turns back before ascending. "You may not believe this, but I do admire you, Veronica. I'm not here to hurt you."

For once, she can't think of an appropriate withering response, so instead, Veronica turns back to the coffee pot, watching as the brew cycle completes.

She waits until Zadie's out of sight, then cuts off the tags.

Fuck yeah, it belongs to me.

Logan
Day Ten
Titan's Trigger
Miami, Florida

The white leather booth finishes transforming into a sun pad and Logan releases the button. Fully expanded, it's almost round, taking up the space where the table had been before he stashed it under the decking.

Zadie flutters around him like a manic hummingbird, collecting her remaining possessions and – unconcerned about wrinkles – shoving them willy-nilly into a large bag. Up at the helm, Duncan pilots the vessel through the marina, obeying every speed limit sign. Obviously.

Logan kicks off his shoes, and flops backwards onto the lounger. The cushions absorb his weight, comfortable enough to sleep on, and roomy enough to fit two.

He shivers as a cool breeze sweeps in from starboard. They'd removed the clear vinyl canopy covering the yacht's stern prior to leaving Nicholas Key this afternoon. He wonders now if they should've reconnected it before pulling away from the slip. It's bound to get cold and windy back here once they hit open water.

He gets up and retrieves a red fleece blanket he'd discovered in the drawer below one of the portside benches. It's small – more of a throw – but so is Veronica. It should be sufficient to keep her warm.

Scooting all the way back, he spreads both arms across the seat back. Crosses his right ankle over his left, then his left over his right. Back to right over left.

Unlike the quiet seclusion of their home marina, most of the boats here show signs of occupation – glowing lights, beach towels drying on rails, the scent of burgers on the grill. Friendly people wave as they motor through the waterway, and Logan responds in kind.

Larger yachts are tied up horizontally on the outside of the marina. Outkast's "Hey Ya" booms from the speakers of one eighty-foot Sunseeker. On the upper deck, a man in a jacuzzi entertains a dozen or so gyrating bikini babes.

Logan squints. Is that...? Yep, it's definitely Ethan Spencer, Hollywood's up-and-comer in the "sensitive leading man" category.

Two of the girls are looking out over the railing as the Titan's Trigger passes. They wave, and Logan responds with a barrage of bubbles.

They squeal and clap, and 'reward' him by flashing their tits.

Zadie cups her hands around her mouth and yells, "Fake! They're supposed to jiggle."

Logan groans and offers a silent prayer of gratitude. One, because his wig makes him virtually unrecognizable, and two, that Veronica wasn't here to witness that.

She would've made it his fault. Somehow.

Just to be safe, he stuffs the bubbles back in his pocket.

While Duncan aims the boat under a bridge, Logan closes his eyes and drops his head backwards.

Another Hollywood scumbag posing as a nice guy. How is he still capable of being disappointed?

It may be hypocritical – he's lost count of his own sexual partners – but he's never understood the appeal of notches on the bedpost. Sex as a numbers game for bragging rights. The practice reminds him of Daddy Dearest. Soulless and empty.

For Logan, the drive to get laid has always been about gaining pleasure or numbing intense pain, and while he has screwed-around indiscriminately, sex is so much better when he shares a connection with his partner. When he's in a relationship.

He would give it all up for Veronica. Even if they never progress beyond a couple stolen kisses.

Not likely. He can barely hold her off as it is. Not that he's trying super hard.

"Wow. All that's missing is Barry White and a disco ball."

Logan opens his eyes to find a smirking Veronica standing near his feet, and gesturing to the sun pad. Zadie's gone. Finally.

He grins and points upward. "No ceiling. But I'm sure if I strung up some wire..."

"And the music?"

"Come closer." He beckons. "I'll whisper dirty lyrics in your ear."

She delivers a perfunctory eye roll (which, he deserves) then scrunches her nose and gestures to his head. "That rug needs to go."

"And here I was considering taking up the acoustic guitar and starting a band." As they come out from under the bridge, Logan nods at an island on their immediate right, and a long, white concrete building with U.S. Coast Guard signage. "Why don't I leave it on until we're somewhere a little more private."

"Good plan."

Leaning forward, he takes the two coffee mugs from Veronica's hands, places them in cup-holders next to the stairs, and pats the seat beside him.

Veronica hangs her handbag on a hook over the mini-fridge, and then wiggle-crawls across the lounger to join him.

And that's not going in the rotation, or anything.

Logan drapes his right arm over her shoulders, nuzzles her close, and lowers his mouth to her ear. "I'll be your freak between the sheets. It's what you do to me." She snickers and his lips pull wide into a smile. "I don't make the kind of love that's only for a minute. I'll be inside of you as long as you want me in it."

"Perv." If she'd intended her expression to be reproachful, her twinkling eyes are ruining the message.

"Hey, you asked for Barry White. If you wanted G-Rated lyrics, you should've gone with Phil Collins. Maybe some Billy Joel."

"Do you actually know any songs from this decade, Logan?"

"Sure, I do." He lowers his voice to a whisper again. "My neck. My back. Lick my pu—"

She smashes her hand to his mouth, cutting off his words.

"Chicken." He kisses her palm.

Duncan turns at the next corner, navigating into a wide channel. Immense cruise liners line up along the Port of Miami to their right, while the MacArthur Causeway borders their left.

He retrieves their coffee, handing one to Veronica. "So, I was thinking..."

"And there's your first problem. I thought we'd established that I'm the brains of this operation. You're the eye candy."

"Excellent. Then we're on the same page."

She raises an eyebrow. "What's on your mind, Hubby?"

"I just..." He rubs the back of his neck. "I just don't have a good feeling about the trophy wife strategy. I know I agreed to it, already, but…"

Veronica's lips flatten and she turns away, suddenly fascinated by a Royal Caribbean ship. "You might've mentioned that before we exchanged wedding bands."

"Hey!" He nudges her shoulder. "I'm committed to this marriage. In fact, I'm considering hyphenating my name."

She ignores the opening. "So, what's the problem with our story? Do I not meet the minimum level of hotness for a trophy wife?"

"C'mon. You're off the charts."

"But?" She waits him out.

"But why do you have to look like a gold-digger for it to work? Maybe I'm the gold digger, huh?"

"Please." She scoffs, but her shoulders relax, as if no longer braced for the worst. "You couldn't pull it off. You practically reek of wealth and privilege."

"And you don't. But you could learn. If this is going to be our way of life, we both have things to learn."

Conversation pauses as they motor past a Norwegian cruise liner, lit up in rainbow colors from bow to stern.

Veronica gawks at it, her mouth slightly open, and something like sadness in her eyes as they trace the yellow and green water-slides snaking across the uppermost deck.

Logan's never been on a cruise. He'd asked about it once when he was nine, but Aaron had only sneered. "They're not for people like us." Later, his mother had explained the security risks of celebrities mixing with the general public, and especially obsessive fans.

He touches his lips to the crown of Veronica's head. "We'll book a trip someday. And we'll spend the entire time pretending to be kids again."

"Not without passports we won't." She sighs. "We won't be travelling anywhere."

She's always wanted to travel the world. He remembers returning home from trips abroad. How Veronica would make him describe everything in vivid detail, how she'd close her eyes while listening, as if imagining herself there beside him. He'd started taking photos for the single purpose of including her, and continued the practice through the previous year, while they weren't even on speaking terms.

It's not fair. She was attacked, nearly raped, and now, thanks to Duncan going Hulk smash, her dreams will never come true.

Veronica's already over it (or at least hiding it well). She looks at him now, cautiously. "Can I ask what motivated this attack of conscience?" At his momentary confusion, she clarifies. "Your reluctance for me to play a trophy wife? I mean, you never cared about my class-status in the past. At least before Lilly died."

"Right. That." He takes a sip of coffee, stalling while he tries to articulate his thoughts. "I haven't been able to stop thinking about my mom today. And her place in the Neptune social order."

"The very top?"

"Not even close. She doesn't have any friends. Not really." The right side of his mouth lifts and pulls back, expressing his bitterness. "The other ladies are polite to her face, but they all look down on her. You know, Celeste Kane and her ilk. I never could tell if Mom has a killer poker face, or if she's just that oblivious. But they see a woman who giggles too much and dresses too young, and they think gold-digger. Doesn't matter that she came into the marriage with more than my father."

Veronica takes his free hand, sandwiching it between hers. "They're awful people, Logan. I'm sorry your mom is treated that way. She's always been so nice to me."

They're through the channel now, past the seaport. Ahead, to the left, are the glittering lights of South Beach, to the right is Fisher Island, former playground of the Vanderbilts and the public face of Miami wealth and luxury.

Logan turns away, shaking his head. "The worst part? I hated my dad for that. He put Mom in that position, isolated her from her own people, and then stood by and did nothing while those bitches made her the butt of their jokes. Hell, if he hadn't fucked most of their social set, maybe the other women wouldn't see her as the competition. I hated him. And then I turned into him."

"What do you mean?"

He swallows. "This past year. The way people treated you. The way I encouraged them to treat you. I regret everything. If we hadn't left Neptune..." He lets the thought go unfinished. Kissing her knuckles, Logan releases her hand, takes a sip of coffee. "So, I guess, the thought of you purposely putting yourself in the position to receive more of the same – the sneers and the side-eyes – all for the purpose of keeping us safe. I just don't love the idea. I want to protect you from that."

While Veronica takes a moment to digest his words, Logan removes the wig from his head and finger-teases his hair back into place.

It's quiet back here, the only sound being the 'thump thump thump' of club music, and the shrieks of drunk party-goers on a distant booze cruise.

Finally, she breaks the silence. "So, what do you have in mind?"

Logan inhales, preparing himself for her anger. "Zadie has to go. I want her gone as much as you do."

"But?"

"But today, I watched her transform from a street urchin to an heiress in three seconds flat, and she was good. I would've fallen for it, if I hadn't known better."

"Why is this surprising? She's a con artist."

"I'm just saying, if we're going to be stuck with her anyway, why not use her to our advantage? Pick her brain a little? We could be like con artist apprentices or something."

Veronica opens her mouth, eyes full of protest, then pauses, seems to think it over, and exhales.

She jabs a finger in his face. "If I thought for one second you wanted to Eliza Doolittle me, I would tell you to go fuck yourself."

"And I would deserve it. Although, for the record, I fuck myself almost daily with you around, but I know what you meant."

Her eyes do that thing, and he knows what she's thinking. Knows the invitation is on the tip of her tongue.

She shakes her head instead. "Fine. You want me to be Angie Dahl, I'll give you Angie Dahl."

Logan cringes. "Or...literally any other 09er in Neptune?"

He would suggest Carrie – it was her that Zadie reminded him of today – but it's probably for the best not to mention any of his exes to his jealous not girlfriend.

Veronica removes her own wig, then shifts up onto her hands and knees, flashing way too much thigh. Is she trying to kill me? She stretches out an arm, and stuffs both wigs in her bag, zipping it shut.

She peeks at him over her shoulder. "Trying to sneak a peek up my skirt, Echolls?"

"Sneak?" He tries to look offended. "That implies you have something under there you don't want me to see, and after your little bout of exhibitionism this morning, I'd have to call bullshit."

Veronica smooths her palms over her hair, snuggles back into his right side, and smirks up at him. "To quote a cliché, all's fair in love and war."

"And which one are we?"

"I guess that's up to you."

Brat. Just as he suspected. The touching, the near-nudity, the suggestive comments. For the past couple days, she's been waging all-out assault against his resolve.

"Is it, though? You rejected my offer of love. So, my only real options are war or settling for less. The crumbs you're willing to give me."

A quick flicker of surprise and then her expression goes blank. "So, what? Are you giving up? Waving the white flag?"

Logan locks eyes with her for several beats – until it's uncomfortable – then turns his mouth to her ear. "My high school aptitude test said I had a strong proficiency for military strategy." He takes her lobe between his teeth, runs the tip of his tongue over it. Just for fun, he licks the spot on her neck that makes her gasp. "You can call me Admiral."

Veronica's eyes crackle with heat, and he has no doubt she will make him pay for that moment of bravado.

She will ride me into the ground.
But at least I'll die satisfied.

They round the Eastern point of Fisher Island and the yacht turns southward, back toward the Keys. Once they're past a trio of orange buoys, Duncan pulls back on the throttle.

The boat accelerates, tilting them backwards as the bow rises up above the waves. Spray mists their skin, leaves a tang of salt in their mouths.

Veronica's hair whips around her face, and she laughs aloud.

Before them, the city reflects back from the water in a stunning display of neon reds, blues, greens and yellows.

Logan nudges her to lean forward and wraps the red throw around her shoulders like an oversized cape.

She turns her head, voice raised to be heard over the loud motor. "We can share the blanket."

"I'm okay." He nods toward the helm. "I think Duncan can see us from the mirror."

"So?"

Logan releases a beleaguered sigh. "I'm afraid the temptation to grope me under the covers might be too strong for you to resist. And while I'm sure that would be mutually enjoyable, we can't have Donut getting distracted and hitting a whale or something. Safety first."

"Your sacrifice is noted."

His face splits into a grin, and he kisses the side of her temple.

It's too bumpy now to drink coffee, so he places his cup back in the holder, then stretches out lengthwise, cradling his head with one bent arm so that all he can see is sky and stars.

Veronica joins him, ignoring his earlier objection and covering them both up with the blanket.

Out on the open sea, the clouds are an odd smoky-gray against a shockingly blue backdrop.

She gazes up at the sky. "We could sleep out here. Under the stars."

"I'd like that, but not at the dock. We'll drive out to the middle of nowhere some night and drop anchor."

"Barry White on the stereo?"

"You bet. But I thought you preferred music from this decade. I offered you a suggestion."

"Forget the dirty lyrics." Veronica shifts onto her left side slides her fingertips under the hem of his polo shirt. "Would you fuck the hell out of me on this bed?" She bites her lip, teasingly. "Admiral?"

Groaning, Logan rolls on his right side, facing her. "I intend to." He tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear. "When you're my girlfriend."

"You're no fun." Veronica pokes out a lip, finds his left arm and swings it around her neck.

She snuggles closer, and they spend the remainder of the trip staring quietly up at the stars. The boat's motion has a soporific effect on him, and he's almost fallen asleep when Duncan calls out for him from the helm.

"We're here. Can you help with the docking, Logan?"

Logan sits up and rubs his eyes. They've slowed down to a crawl for the entry into Huntington Marina. "Yeah. Sure thing."

He apologizes to Veronica with his eyes and gets up.

"It's fine." She rises, collects her bag and both coffee mugs. "You help Duncan, and I'm going to head down to bed."

"Okay, I'll be there in a few minutes."

They'll have to tie the bow lines and the port lines, reconnect the utilities to the slip and Duncan still wants to show him around the engine room.

It's going to be more than a few minutes. She'll probably be asleep when he gets to bed.

Only question – is that a good thing or a bad thing?

Veronica
Day Ten
Titan's Trigger
Nicholas Key

A large white shopping bag sits on her pillow, high quality, with silver ribbon handles. Shiny chrome letters stretch edge-to-edge, configured to resemble eyelashes.

Wink? Wasn't that one of the boutiques in the shopping district?

Veronica peeks inside, nudging aside silvery tissue paper. She pulls out a pair of drawstring yoga pants and holds them up to the light. They're about the right size, heather gray and soft, like cotton candy. A matching zip-up hoodie makes up the set. One-hundred percent cashmere, according to the tags.

Oh Logan. You thoughtful, beautiful, idiot.

At least they're hand-washable. She's not sure she could bring herself to wear dry clean only.

The bag isn't quite empty, although the weight is negligible. She unfolds a tissue-wrapped bundle, expecting a sexy thong. Can't have panty-lines under clingy fabric like cashmere, Veronica. She lets out a small gasp of pleasure when she finds a robe and short pajamas instead.

Inside the closet, she strips naked, sliding the bottoms up over her hips. They're smaller and snugger than her usual sleep shorts, black silk charmeuse, covered with ballerina pink ribbon-embroidered flowers. The plain-black cami floats loose to her waist, with a scalloped-lace overlay at the neckline and hem and side-slits baring an inch or two of skin. She adjusts the straps to accommodate her smaller breasts.

Snagging the matching black robe off the bed, she slips her arms through the sleeves. It covers her bottom with only inches to spare and has the same ribbon-embroiderery as the shorts, but with the flowers arranged on branches to resemble cherry blossoms, and wide, solid-pink trim edging the center opening, the kimono style sleeves and the sash belt.

Veronica ties a large bow at her right hip and examines herself in the mirror.

She looks...sexy. Not in-your-face, slutty, but sexy nonetheless. Glamorous, even.

The stateroom door opens, closes, and Logan inhales sharply. "Oh my God."

Veronica glances over her shoulder. "Tell me there's another bag somewhere with a pair of marabou mules?"

Logan stares.

"Lock the door."

"Huh?" His voice cracks and he swallows so hard she can see it across the room.

"Lock it. We can't have Dodger wandering in while we're sleeping again."

"Oh." Logan visibly relaxes, thumbs the locking mechanism.

Goof. What did he think she was going to do to him?

"I can explain." He gestures to the robe. "That."

"Okay." She rounds the foot of the bed, snags his hand and drags him into the bathroom. "Explain away."

"Okay, so, I when I tailed Zadie into that store, I told the salesperson I was looking for a gift for my wife. That we were on our honeymoon."

"Which was our agreed-upon story." Veronica gathers their before-bed supplies from the medicine cabinet, sliding Logan's products to the right half of the vanity.

"Honeymoon, Veronica." He stresses. "It took five minutes to convince her I wasn't interested in purchasing anything transparent."

"You didn't want to buy me transparent nighties?" She switches to Boop-voice and pretends to pout.

Logan's lip quirks. "If I had my way, all your clothing would be transparent and as paper-thin as my resolve."

Suppressing a smile, Veronica squeezes toothpaste on both toothbrushes, handing Logan his.

She begins brushing her teeth, and he watches her in the mirror for a moment before joining her.

After rinsing, Veronica leans in toward the mirror, removing the brown contact lenses and placing them back in their holder. She washes her face while Logan performs his twenty-step beauty routine.

"So, you're really not mad about the clothes?"

"I'm going to accept them in the manner intended, and not dwell on the budget implications."

He pauses in the act of rubbing some kind of serum into his cheeks. "I wouldn't worry about that. They just charged it to the island pass."

"You think that's wise? Somebody's paying those bills."

Logan shrugs. "You heard the dockmaster, yesterday. Cinetopia Group owns a bunch of yachts and beach houses around here. Who's going to bat an eye at a couple hundred dollars-worth of clothing?"

A couple hundred dollars? Jesus, Logan!

Obviously, they're cashmere and silk, but she could purchase several outfits from Target for that amount.

He watches her warily, as if preparing for a scolding.

Veronica smiles. "We're fine. I love my new lingerie."

"Lingerie?" He scoffs. "It's shorts and a tank top. The same stuff you wear to bed every night. Only silky. I'd hardly call it lingerie."

"Okay. You'd know best." Veronica slips off the robe, hanging it on the door hook.

"Holy shit!" Logan spins away, covering his face with his hands. "That's lingerie. Almost."

"Told you," she sings.

"I swear, Veronica, I had no idea those shorts would show the bottom of your ass."

She speaks over her shoulder as she exits the room. "You have a problem with my ass?"

Logan abandons his routine, pre-moisturizer, to follow her. "I fucking worship your ass, and you know it."

"Really." Veronica folds back the bedding, props up her pillows, and turns back to Logan, holding out her arms. "Help me up, and then tell me a little more about this worship stuff. I want details."

"Bend over, and I'll show you instead." Not giving her time for a witty comeback, Logan plants both hands on her butt, pulling her hard against his body. He twirls her around once, hoists her up on the bed, and kisses her nose. "When you're my girlfriend."

Oh, it's so on.
And I learned from the master, buddy.

Veronica snags a bottle of vanilla-coconut scented lotion from her nightstand, warms a quarter-sized dollop between her palms. She extends her legs, languorously rubbing the cream into her skin.

Logan makes a whimpering sound low in his throat. "And to think, some people didn't believe me when I said you had a vicious streak."

"Who, me?" She bats her eyelashes at him, all innocence.

"Right. You're as pure as the driven snow." Logan turns on the headboard lamps, then moves around the room turning off the remaining lights.

He drops his shorts, then whips off his polo shirt in a single motion, tossing both in the hamper.

Show off.

But...Damn!

"Fuck." He draws back the bedding on his side. "For the record, I also didn't choose those pajamas out of some sneaky agenda to catch a glimpse of side boob."

Oh, am I flashing side boob? Silly me.

"Why did you pick this set?"

Logan hops up on the bed effortlessly, folding one leg underneath him. He leans forward, tracing one of the ribbon blossoms on her thigh. "Five-petal flowers are good luck."

"How so?"

He grins, eyes sparkling playfully. "Because they always end on 'She Loves Me'."

A comfortable warmth floods through her.

You're making it so hard not to, you dork.

Veronica leans in and kisses his lips. Softly, because he's so gosh darn cute. And then harder because his mouth is heroin and she don't wanna get clean.

Logan pulls back, but she follows. Up onto her knees, chasing his lips.

No, not heroin, his mouth is the best luxury chocolate from Belgium. The kind you consume with your eyes closed, savoring every ounce, and knowing you'll never surpass it in quality.

She pushes forward, straddles his thighs. Poised over him, she brackets his jawline between her hands, holding him still. Nips at his lower lip.

Logan doesn't pull away so much as ease her cheek against his, while gathering her body into an embrace.

It feels like a stalling tactic. Like, as long as they can't look each other in the eyes, it doesn't have to get awkward.

Was he even an active participant in that kiss? He certainly wasn't fighting it, but...?

Throat tight and face burning, Veronica attempts to break free from him and his stupid rules and conditions. Logan doesn't release her, he clutches her tighter, hauls her so close he's almost hugging himself.

She slumps over like a rag doll, drops her face onto his left shoulder, eyes squeezed closed in an attempt to stem the tears. Breathes in. Out. Until her throat loosens and her sinuses stop prickling.

Why does she do this to herself? What did she think? He'd just give in and make out with her?

What had he called it earlier? Settling for less?

He hadn't meant it as an insult, and she should probably be thrilled that he wants a relationship more than sex. He's like the perfect, sensitive, teen romance, not-quite-a-bad-boy boyfriend, and she's…?

A fucking mess. Incapable of giving him what he wants.

No, not incapable. Unwilling.

Because it's been there all along. Before she learned how delicious it felt to have his hard parts smashed against her soft parts. Before their first kiss. Before they even agreed to be friends again.

Being around Logan feels like a ball of gentle, golden sunlight in her chest. A throbbing mass of contentment and warmth. Whether they're bantering or bickering, play fighting or just sitting in companionable silence, there's a sense of being tethered. Her affection for him feels older than time. This is your friend, your counterpoint, your true partner.

And then, it all changes.

All it takes is a look in his eyes, a tone of voice, a touch of his hand. Her pulse begins racing, adrenaline surges through her veins, and that warm ball of sunlight drowns in a raging torrent of desperation and need.

This also isn't new.

When she hated Logan, the need whispered: Destroy, destroy, destroy.

In those first days after they left home, it demanded: Hide. Escape. Keep him at a distance, and never give him the keys to destroy you.

When she's hurt, it tells her: Hurt him harder, maim him, draw blood.

And now that she's admitted her desire to both him and herself?

Possess him! Own him. Make him scream your name and forget he's ever known another woman.

Physiologically, 'I-curse-you-your-entire-bloodline-and-your-ugly-yellow-truck-too' doesn't feel significantly different from 'if-I-can't-lick-your-tonsils-this-very-minute-I'm-going-to-spontaneously-combust'.

Logan brings this out in her. Only Logan.

But it's not entirely hopeless. There have been moments in the past few days where the golden ball and the raging torrent have almost coexisted.

Because clever Logan can banter and inflame her body at the same time. Can make her laugh while he's wedging himself between her thighs and aligning their parts. And in those moments, when the glow of warm affection mingles with the whirlwind of urgency, part of her wants to promise him anything. Part of her almost believes it's possible.

She opens her eyes, lashes fluttering against his shoulder. The angle provides a vertical view of Logan's back, all the way down to his boxers.

Beautiful.

As usual, she can't quite define exactly what makes this particular part of his body so attractive. Is it the wide v-shape? Is it that pronounced dip inwards above his butt? Or is it the juxtaposition between the two that results in such a masculine effect?

What did Duncan's back look like?

She draws a blank. Must not have been anything special.

A handful of tiny silvery lines contrast against his sunkissed skin. Most boys have them, souvenirs of missing that tree branch, bike wipeouts, and fences never meant to be climbed. Veronica has a few herself from early roller skating mishaps. Logan's back displays a few more than normal, but between his recklessness and his inability to sit still for more than five minutes, is that any surprise?

She shifts a little higher and traces the nearest scar. Logan's entire torso goes rigid and she freezes. Is he ticklish there? Did she hurt him? He can't still be tender from his fight with Liam. It's been a week.

He exhales, his body relaxes, and his arms drop heavily to his side. She's free to move away now, but she no longer wants to.

Veronica traces a second scar. She pauses for a reaction, then traces a third. Logan's hands lift to brace her hips. A fourth scar. A fifth. His thumbs dip under the hem of her cami, stroking semi-circles on her flesh.

She loves the texture of his skin. The smell of it. Even the taste of it. She wants to taste it again.

"If I was your girlfriend…" Her voice creaks like a rusty hinge.

"Hmmm?" Logan's vocal chords vibrate against her right shoulder.

"If I was your girlfriend, I would kiss you right here." She drags her knuckles over the small of his back.

"I would like that. A lot." His left hand is under her top now, palm pressed flat against her.

"And here." She thumbs the indents of his waist.

"Anywhere else?"

"Yeah. Here." She traces his spine from waistband to neck, and he trembles under her touch.

"Lips or tongue?" he whispers.

"A mixture of both, I think."

"Great answer. That would be fucking amazing."

She shifts her attention to his impossibly-muscled shoulders. Maps them out with her fingers, while fumbling for their proper names.

"Trapezius?" He has an incredible Trapezius muscle. "Rear deltoid? Damn, I can't remember the rest. I should have paid more attention to the posters in Health class."

"I paid attention."

"Oh yeah? And if I gave you a pop quiz?"

Logan's hands slip entirely under her cami, palms sliding all the way up to her neck. "Levator scapulae," he whispers.

His forearms press against her naked back, and his fingers dance over her flesh. "Rhomboid major. Rhomboid minor, Upper Trapezius, Middle Trapezius."

Her eyes are closed, and she's starting to tingle between her legs. Fuck. Only Logan could make clinical anatomy sound like dirty talk.

"Teres Minor. Teres Major. Latissimus Dorsi." Ohhh. That feels good.

Logan must agree, because she can feel him growing hard against her thigh.

She tries to sink down, to make contact with his erection, but Logan holds her still. "I wasn't done." His hands slide over her ass. "Gluteus medius. Gluteus maximus." He gives her a good squeeze, then trails fingertips down the center-back of her thighs. "Hamstrings."

The tingling intensifies, and a quiet moan escapes from Veronica's throat. Logan pauses for a beat, spreads his fingers, and reverses the direction, causing her to gasp.

"Interesting," he says, and she's glad she can't see his expression right now.

"You should write that all down," Veronica says. "Make me a diagram, so I can remember all the places I'm gonna kiss you later. When I'm your girlfriend."

Logan's moan is halfway between pleasure and pain. He releases his hold on her, and she sits back on his thighs.

His face is flushed, and his pupils dilated. He leans forward, brushes his lips, whisper-soft against hers. Against her forehead, each cheek, the tip of her nose, and her mouth again. His fingers skim from her temples to her jawline.

It's exceedingly gentle, and if she'd felt rejected a while ago, she now feels loved. Treasured.

His gaze drifts from her eyes to her lips, and down to her breasts, where one of the spaghetti straps has fallen, and the cami is hanging-on by a nipple and a prayer. Oops.

Logan glides the strap back up her shoulder. He sighs and dips his forehead to rest against hers. "Please hurry and fall for me."

She kisses him – an agonizingly chaste touching of the lips – because she refuses to examine the emotion gathering behind her solar-plexus and doesn't trust herself to speak.

"Turn around." Logan says. He scoots back against his pillow and pats the spot between his thighs. "I can't think straight, when you keep looking at me like a kitten does a ball of yarn."

"Meow." Veronica takes a playful swipe at him.

She settles into the space indicated. "So, what do you need to think about?"

"We should talk about last night."

Shit. "We did. You said you didn't remember anything."

"Duncan filled me in while we were driving over to the mainland."

What does Duncan know about last night?

Logan buries his face in her hair, breathes in. He curls strong fingers around her shoulders and kneads. "Yesterday morning was like...everything felt new and perfect between us. I mean, I'm not stupid, I get what's behind your change of heart, but it was nice. Really fucking nice."

What's he getting at?

"Wasn't it?"

"Yeah." He kisses the back of her neck. "You know, this afternoon, I was starting to question my resolve. Like why wait? Things will never be perfect, so why not take a leap of faith and see where the chips fall?"

Veronica's chest flutters. "That's what I've been saying. So, does this mean...?"

He shakes his head, chin moving against her head.

"On the ride over to the mainland, Duncan told me about last night. How you tried to convince him to take off and leave me."

And that explains Logan's mood earlier.

"Duncan needs to keep his trap shut." Veronica snaps. "Look, it wasn't my finest moment, but you have to understand, I thought—"

"Listen. I know what you thought, and I'm not mad at you. I swear."

"But?"

"But it clarified things. We're still not ready. Not yet."

Logan cradles her head with both hands and glides his thumbs up and down the back of her neck. Veronica closes her eyes, hating the message, but loving the delivery.

"When I think about what could've happened to you out there on your own. There's so many predators, and you can't even go to the police."

"I wouldn't have been alone. Duncan would've been there."

"What if he wasn't? What if he'd refused to go with you? What if he wasn't around when you took off? Or what if I'd told you about my fake alibi while we were down on that dock and Duncan's whereabouts were still unknown? I was about to confess, you know, but you interrupted me to go grab us drinks."

"That's a whole lot of what-ifs, Logan. And anyway, I would've come back. Once I calmed down and put some thought into it."

"No, you wouldn't have," he says. "You'd miss me. You'd want to come back, but you would stay away anyway. Tell yourself you weren't wanted here, in order to save yourself from having to swallow your pride."

Maybe. Sometimes, it really sucks being known.

"I'm here, Logan. I'm not going anywhere."

"Think about it, Veronica. We're not even together, and we came THAT close to losing everything last night." He tugs her back against his chest, wraps his arms around her and rests his chin on his shoulder. "Now imagine I hadn't put the brakes on yesterday. Here in our bed or down at the dock. Wherever. Imagine I'd already seen you partially naked when you learned the truth. Imagine I'd already touched you places nobody else ever has."

"Trust me, I've been imagining it all day."

He sighs. "There would have been no convincing you to stay. Nothing I or Duncan could do or say would make you stick around after that. Face it, the farther we take things between us, the higher the potential that we both end up all alone in a strange place with no home or friends or family."

"So what? We just ignore it? Do nothing?" The back of her eyes tingle, and she is NOT going to cry.

"I don't know. I think we wait until we're both sure that it's worth the risk. We're worth the risk." He skims a hand down her arm. "And we learn to trust each other, no matter what."

"I'd like that, Logan. But it's hard when I know you're still keeping secrets from me. Like where you were when Lilly died."

Logan sighs. "You're going there again? It's not a secret, Veronica. I'm just not comfortable discussing it yet. I can promise you this much, it was nothing illegal."

"Did anybody else actually see you doing this...whatever?"

"Yeah." He exhales. "But nobody you'll be able to contact for an alibi, so..."

"So that doesn't help much," she snaps, jealousy burning like acid in her esophagus.

Whoever's wife or girlfriend he was with that day, it's been almost a year now. Get over it, Veronica.

Logan catches her tone. "What, Veronica? I damn sure don't know all your secrets. Do you see me demanding to know everything?"

He's got her there. Except not wanting to confide the way you were victimized, is a lot different than guilt over victimizing somebody else.

He continues. "Like for instance, your secret errands today. The ones I couldn't be there for?"

Secret errands? Like having her vagina poked and prodded by gloved fingers and cold instruments of torture? Like obtaining birth control pills, so she could have safe sex with the guy she's crazy about? The guy who won't return her kisses? That secret errand?

However uncomfortable you are discussing your hush-hush alibi, Logan? Double that.

"My errands were mostly work-related. As in finding employment. It was nothing illegal." She throws Logan's words back at him, and then snorts. "Okay, technically, it was highly illegal."

"Veronica..." he groans.

"Relax, I just planted some recording devices. They can't be traced back to us."

"I'm so relaxed," he lies. "Let's just get some sleep. I'm exhausted." He eases her out from between his legs, twists, and turns off his lamp.

"Yeah. Okay." Disappointed in some vague and indescribable way, Veronica turns out the light on her side of the bed.

Logan gathers her into his arms, slings an arm around her waist.

Fine. It's a reprieve of sorts.

Still wide awake, Veronica contemplates an oval of light reflected on the closet door.

We learn to trust each other.

Something about the darkness – being invisible – makes it easier to speak. "You know those secret errands?"

"Yeah."

"Not quite so secret. More like embarrassing." She exhales and continues. "I had to go to Planned Parenthood. To get checked out and everything."

Logan tenses behind her. "What do you mean 'checked out'? Is something wrong?"

"No. I'm fine. I just thought it would be a good idea to start taking birth control. In case anything were to happen."

"Veronica…you didn't have to." He kisses the back of her shoulder. "We have a drawerful of—"

"I know. I just wanted to be safe." She turns around, nudges Logan onto his back, and lays her head on his chest. "What you said earlier on the boat? About love and war? You should know I'm not rejecting you, only your terms."

"This isn't a negotiation."

"It could be. Think of all the favors we could trade." She tiptoes her fingers down his stomach.

Logan laughs, captures her wrist, relocates it to his chest and entwines his fingers through hers. "Go to sleep, Veronica."