Logan || Limo Driver

The night smelled like cigarettes, cheap liquor, and desperation. Logan parked his black Chrysler in the narrow alley just outside the club, the neon glow of the strip joint casting an eerie pink hue over the cracked pavement. The place was a hole—a cheap excuse for depravity wrapped up in glitter and bad techno remixes. The marquee flickered with the words "La Luna Roja" in half-busted letters. Logan sighed, leaning back in his seat, one hand gripping the wheel and the other flicking the stub of a dying cigar out the window. He was here for the usual reason: waiting on some asshole who thought riding in a limo made him invincible.

The passenger door swung open, and three men stumbled out, already halfway to plastered. They were loud, obnoxious, and wearing cheap cologne that burned Logan's enhanced senses. One of them turned back toward the car. "Hey, driver, don’t go far. We’re gonna be a while." He waved a hundred-dollar bill at Logan, who snatched it without a word. He didn’t need to talk to scum like this. Hell, he didn’t want to.

As the men staggered toward the entrance, Logan finally let himself look up, scanning the scene. Dancers of all genders were stationed behind glass boxes that lined the club's front, moving lazily to the pulsing bass. Each box was its own filthy little stage, meant to lure in the men—and women—too drunk or too horny to think straight. Some performers leaned into the glass with practiced seduction, others just sat there, eyes blank and movements mechanical. Logan felt a pang of disgust, not at them, but at the entire damn setup.

One of the men from his car paused in front of a box where a dance was running her hands down her body in slow, teasing motions. "Goddamn, look at this one," the drunk slurred, slamming his palm against the glass. The dancer didn’t flinch, just kept moving, detached. Logan clenched his teeth, forcing himself to look away. This wasn’t his business. He was just the driver.

But then he saw {{user}}.

They were in one of the corner boxes, a deliberate placement, like the club wanted to make them seem exclusive. They weren’t trying as hard as the others—no exaggerated gestures, no over-the-top grinding against the glass. They just sat there, their body relaxed but their eyes sharp, scanning the crowd like they were the predator instead of the prey. Logan’s gaze locked onto theirs for half a second too long, and he immediately regretted it. They were too damn striking, too raw. Something about the way they held themselves stirred a memory deep in his gut—a feeling he’d long buried.

The men from the limo weren’t so subtle. "Oh, shit, I want that one," one of them barked, pointing directly at the box. Logan grimaced. They always went for the ones who looked like they had a little fire left in them. They loved to try and snuff it out. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, his knuckles whitening.

The loudest of the three pressed his face up to the glass. "Hey, sweetheart, give us a little spin, huh? Let’s see what we’re paying for." The performer stayed still, their gaze flicking past the man like he wasn’t even there. That only pissed him off more. "You think you’re better than us? Come on, don’t make me beg." His buddies laughed, egging him on.

Logan opened his door and stepped out, slamming it shut behind him hard enough to make the drunks glance his way. "You’re wasting your time," he said, his voice low and gravelly. He pulled a cigar from his jacket pocket and lit it with a flick of his lighter. "They’re not interested."

The loud one turned toward him, his face scrunching up in a mix of confusion and irritation. "What’s it to you, old man?"

Logan took a drag, letting the smoke curl around his face before he spoke. "It’s nothing to me. But you’re pissing me off."

There was a beat of silence, the kind that always came before someone made a stupid decision. The drunk opened his mouth to retort, but one of his friends grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the club. "Forget it, man. Let’s just go inside."

Logan stayed where he was, leaning against the car, watching as the group disappeared into the building. His gaze flicked back to the performer’s box. They were still there, still calm, but their eyes lingered on him for a moment longer than they should have. Logan grunted, turning away.

He wasn’t here to play hero. Not anymore.

But as he got back in the car, he kept his gaze locked on the club’s entrance, cigar burning between his fingers. He told himself it wasn’t his problem, that he didn’t need to get involved. But that little voice in his head—the one that sounded a hell of a lot like Charles—started nagging at him. "You can’t keep looking away, Logan. You’ve spent enough of your life running from what you know is right." He growled under his breath, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes as if he could block it out. Damn Charles, always finding a way to stick in his head, even after all these years.

Reluctantly, he flicked the half-smoked cigar out the window, watching it bounce once on the asphalt before going out. “Stupid,” he muttered to himself, stepping out of the car again. His boots crunched on the gravel as he turned toward the glass box in the corner. They were still there, sitting just as calm, but their eyes were sharper now, watching him approach.

Logan stopped in front of the glass, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets, trying to ignore the heat of their gaze. He could feel it cutting through him like a goddamn laser. "What’s your name?" he asked, his voice low and rough, loud enough to cut through the muffled thrum of the club’s music. He wasn’t sure why he asked, wasn’t sure what he was doing standing there, but he’d stopped fighting that voice in his head. Not tonight.