Logan's POV
"Who the fuck let that asshole in here?" Dave snarls the moment the door slams behind us. "Where the hell is security? Isn't checking press ID standard fucking practice? What is wrong with you people?!"
I wince and rub at my temple. The sharp hum of fluorescent lights and the aftermath of adrenaline has produced a lovely headache in the space between my eyes. My pulse is still too loud in my ears.
"Dave," I say, voice low. "It's fine."
"Fine? Fine?!" he roars, whipping around on me like I just said the moon's made of cheese. "That guy just challenged you. On camera. You think that shit's going to get buried in some press junket bin?"
He's pacing now. All twitchy movements and flared nostrils. His tie is half-askew, his sleeves shoved to his elbows.
