Lure

## Usage & preview

Type in this:

```
{{FicletMeta
}}

```

to see this:

 Date
 Timing
 Setting
 Arc / track
 Initiating author
 Inspired by
 Notes

Click here to refresh the preview above
</noinclude>

Logan strolls into Ed's 'office', takes in Ed and a person in a dress leaning against the table, chatting. He clears his throat.

Two heads snap his way.

"/**You!**" hisses the dress person, yanking [themselves] ramrod straight.

Logan narrows his eyes. "Do I know you?"

"You left me cuffed me to a bench!"

"Oh. You."

"You got me sent up for stalking!"

"You should be thanking me you didn't go down for /**kidnapping**. That's /**serious** time, Veal."

"/**Lamb.**"

"Whatever."

Lamb scowls.

"So ... you two know each other?" says Ed.

"You /**could** say that," smugs Logan. "I beat Mutton—"

"/**Lamb**, asswipe!"

"—at her own game a few years back."

"Great!" Ed chirps.

Logan and Lamb stare, eyebrows raised.

"You know what each other can do."

Logan rolls his eyes; Lamb pouts.

Ed grins.

Logan sighs, flops into the lone comfy chair, sprawls.

Lamb glares at him.

"What's the job?" prompts Logan.

Ed leans back, crosses his arms. "You lucky bastards are going to a party."

Logan's eyebrow creeps up again.

"That's it." Lamb's just as skeptical.

"Yup. All you have to do is mingle and open a door for me."

"So you can ...?" prompts Logan.

"Help us to the contents of a safe."

"Which contains ...?" nudges Lamb.

"An objet d'art my client wants badly and a small /**mountain** of /**cash**."

"How much cash?"

"A lot." Ed shrugs. "You two split whatever's there."

Lamb pouts, "Which means you're getting paid something obscene to get the item."

"So what if I am? /**I** have to beat a top-of-the-line safe. All /**you** have to do is drink expensive wine and work a doorknob."

"If it's that simple," says Logan, "why can't she do it herself?"

Ed smiles his 'I-know-something-you-don't' smile. "It's a couples-only event—"

Logan and Lamb exchange a Look.

"—and, before you ask, as much as I hate to say so, you clean up better than I do, Jones." Leans over, hands Logan a white envelope with gold lettering.

Lamb perks up. "'Jones'? As in 'The Kitten'? The art thief?"

Logan concedes, examines the invitation.

"I got played by a /**thief**?!" wails Lamb.

"I'm multi-talented," huffs Logan, tucking the invite in a pocket.

"He's a regular Renaissance man," chuckles Ed. "Seriously, you guys'll do great."

Logan and Lamb pout.

"It's black tie—"

"You've /**got** to be—"

"Why do you think I needed a mannered gentleman, Jonesy?"

Logan rolls his eyes.

"Where was I? Oh yea! Black tie, Friday night, twenty-one-hundred—be fashionably late—at the Dwyer estate in Vaucluse. All you have to do is open the east door into the—" Stuffy voice. "—conservatory as close to twenty-two-thirty as you can." Grins. "Easy-peasey."

Something chimes in one of Ed's pockets.

"And that's my cue to go! You two know where the door is." He waves negligently and strolls out.

Lamb plunks on the arm of Logan's chair, watches Ed vanish around a corner. "He's not telling us something."

Logan grunts agreement.

.

Lamb gives Logan a lingering once-over. "Looking good there ... what's your name again?"

He shrugs, fights the urge to fiddle with his bow tie.

"I can't call you 'hey, you' all night."

"You go first."

Lamb rolls her eyes. "Alica. Alica White."

"Pleased to meet you, Alica. I'm Patrick Jones for this evening." Offers an arm. "Let's get this over with."

"At least act like you're enjoying yourself, /**Pat**," huffs Lamb, threading her arm through his. "They'll figure something's up if you're looking bored and—" Gives him a shake. "You're /**not** getting me arrested again."

Logan rolls his eyes, keeps strolling up the walk to the big house, carefully setting a pace Lamb can match. At the door, he presents the invitation with a touch of sleight-of-hand that makes it seemingly appear from thin air.

A nearby dress-wearer titters, bats eyelashes at him.

Lamb squeezes Logan's arm, steers him away, mumbles, "Looks like you're going to be the center of attention tonight—"

Logan sighs.

"—so I guess I'll be stuck playing wallflower."

"How unfortunate," murmurs Logan. Conversational volume: "Would you like something to drink?"

"Hmm ... the driest red they have."

Logan slopes off to the bar, collects a glass of wine and a tumbler of soda water, weaves his way—

The little hairs on the back of his neck twitch.

He checks his peripheral, spots the hostess focusing on his part of the room, eyes slightly narrowed. Mentally shrugging it off, he steps next to Lamb. "Your Merlot," he says, offering the glass.

"What I wouldn't give for a hostess with the ovaries to serve a Syrah, just /**once**," she sighs.

Logan leans down, whispers in her ear, "Speaking of, what's your read on our hostess?"

"She's looking for something." Sips. "Or someone."

"Trouble?"

"Shouldn't be. That's a woman on the hunt for sex, not one worried about security."

Logan grunts, straightens, sips his soda.

"C'mon. Let's mingle."

Lamb takes his arm leads them on a spiral path through the crowd for an interminable thirty-seven minutes of mindless chit-chat, slowly closing the distance to Ed's door. She excuses herself, separates.

Logan sighs in relief.

Then the hairs on the back of his neck, on his arms, on his /**everywhere** really, stands straight up.

He checks his peripheral.

The hostess parting the crowd like a shark fin through water, headed right for him.

Logan schools his face into a charming smile.

The hostess glides up to him, stands much too close. "I don't believe we've met," she purrs. "Lucinda Dwyer." A small, polite bow.

"Patrick Jones," greets Logan, matching her gesture.

"Why haven't I seen you about before tonight?"

Logan smiles shyly. "I'm new on the scene. New to the city, too."

"Hmm ... that's what your accent says. Gold Coast?"

Logan beams. "Nicely done."

"It's a gift." Dwyer bats her eyelashes.

Logan stifles a sigh.

"What brings you to the city?" Links her arm with Logan's.

"Business opportunities."

"Mmhmm. You /**must** tell me more about your business." She steers Logan toward a door at the opposite side of the room.

He risks a glance over his shoulder.

No sign of Lamb and he's through a door into a room devoid of other guests.

Those little hairs set to vibrating.

Dwyer crowds him against the wall, wine-scented breath hot on his face.

Logan presses himself as flat as he can.

"Where have you been hiding from me, Mister Jones?" Strokes his hair. "You are everything I look for in a man." She nuzzles his cheek.

Logan's pulse jumps and the whimper's out before he can choke it down.

"Mmm ... this gets you going, too?" She nips at his throat—

His breath hitches, hands flutter at his sides.

—scratches at his nape. "How do you feel about kissing?"

Logan swallows, croaks, "Not ... not really my thing."

"Could you /**be** any more perfect?"

The door bangs open.

""/**Pat!** You fucking /**promised**!""

Dwyer takes a half-step back—

Logan slinks some distance between them.

Lamb's slap echoes.

"Th' f—"

"You /**said** you'd never do it again and—" Grabs hold of Logan's ear, /**yanks**. "—I catch you with your hands all over another girl!" Tows him through a patio door and onto the lawn, ranting non-stop.

Dwyer stammers and blinks in their wake.

Lamb drags him across the grounds, through the gate, and finally releases her grip when they reach the sidewalk. She fishes in her purse.

"What're ye doing?" Logan rubs his aching ear.

Lamb pulls out a mobile, huffs, "Calling a cab. Job's done. Ed's probably been and gone by now."

"Awe/**some**," he says. And then he turns and retches into the hedge.

"The hell's wrong with you?"

Logan gags again. "Allergy," he croaks.

"To club soda? /**Really** now, Kitten."

Logan straightens, spits. "Mints?"

"Wha?"

"Do you have mints, gum, antacids, anything with a strong flavour?"

"What do you think this—" Shakes her clutch. "—is? Hermione's bottomless handbag?"

Logan rolls his eyes, folds to sit on the curb, undoes his tie.

"Guess you're /**exactly** Mistress Dwyer's type," mumbles Lamb, settling beside him. "At least we know what Ed wasn't telling us now."

Logan growls, "Yea, and he's gonna get paid back for that, with interest, after I get my share."

Lamb studies his face.

"What?"

"You're ace, aren't you?"

"The hell's—"

"Ace. Asexual."

Logan scowls. "I'm /**definitely** a guy."

"Of course you are, Jones," sighs Lamb. "It means you aren't attracted to anyone, like, sexually. Ever."

"Ah."

"/**You** are /**so** unattracted you're repulsed." Smirks. "How much did that thing on the bench cost you?"

Logan shrugs.

"/**Please** tell me I was worth at /**least** as much suffering as that bitch."

"Nope."

"'Nope' I wasn't or 'nope' you're not telling?"

"Yup."

Lamb pouts. "See if I ever rescue you again."

Five minutes of carefully neutral silence while Lamb checks her messages and Logan watches moths circling street lights.

The cab pulls to the curb.

Logan pushes to his feet, offers Lamb a hand up.

She accepts, straightens her dress.

He opens the car door, bows Lamb inside.

"You're not joining me?"

"I can walk from here."

Lamb shrugs. "Suit yourself."

Logan bobs his head, closes the door.

The car rolls off.

He sighs, turns his feet toward the spot he stashed a change of clothes, heads off.