Chapter Text
Don't you mess with a little girl's dreams
'cause she's liable to grow up mean.
Morning, December 6th, 2003
It's a typical dawn on Crescent Hill Drive. The sun rises, birds sing, and dew collects on the meticulously manicured lawns. Too typical.
If life was fair, Mother Nature would rage for me. Instead I get…placid indifference.
Show some damn respect! Let the sky open up. Give me downpours! Give me thunder and lightning!
Like a slap in the face, the world goes on, unaffected by my anguish. By my innocence crumbling away like yesterday's sand castles.
Rape. The word evokes dark alleys behind raucous dive bars, or seedy motel rooms with grotesque stains on the ceiling. Not one of the finest neighborhoods in Southern California. Not Neptune. It's not supposed to happen here.
Except…it does. It did.
I've become a statistic. One in five women.
Like Chloe Grant. Last year, she was a vivacious junior at Neptune High, crackling with humor and barely-restrained energy. Now, her former shiny-penny colored hair falls dull and brittle around her gaunt face, and she bundles her emaciated frame in oversized thick cardigans. As if she can't get warm enough.
Like Dawn Simmons, who'd trusted the justice system to punish her 09er rapist. She took a permanent nap in a closed garage last summer after her attacker's acquittal. After she'd been defamed, denigrated and dragged through the mud by defense counsel and her classmates.
I can still see Dad's haunted expression after finding the body, his crushing hug when I'd arrived home mere minutes after curfew later that night.
Yes, Veronica, it does happen here. One in five women.
Mansions line the street, fraternal twin fortresses behind electric gates, emitting an almost foreboding quality. United against interlopers.
You don't belong here, they whisper as I trudge past. You brought this on yourself.
I shiver at their silent censure, at the December morning chill, until an unfamiliar sensation takes over. A surge of defiance zipping through my veins and heating me from within.
May the earth split open and swallow them whole. Let them burn! And take their sons with them.
I clutch my kitten-heel mules in one hand, and concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other.
My thoughts drift - Who was he? They? Were there witnesses? - but I drag them back to the physical plane. The scratch of cold asphalt against the soles of my feet. The burning between my thighs. The tickle of a broken spaghetti strap as it swings back and forth.
I can't afford to dwell. To feel. I simply move.
I devise goals to pass the time. Specific. Measurable. Attainable. Time-Bound. Isn't that the way you're supposed to do it?
Goal #1: Make it to the Sheriff's Department. Report the crime.
Goal #2: Shower. Until clean. Until my skin peels off and all traces of him are swirling down the drain.
Goal #3: Burn this dress down to the ashes and rise from them like a Phoenix.
Okay, so attainability might be a stretch.
I swipe away a runaway tear. WILL not cry...will NOT cry...will not CRY. This is survival, and I'm on my own.
Embrace the numbness, Veronica.
There are no soft laps to lay my head upon. No gentle hands to brush the hair back from my brow. Mom took off in the night weeks ago, Lilly's been gone even longer. Sixty-three days. No, sixty-four. Two full months and some change.
I can't fall apart. I can't afford to drown in self-pity. I can't afford to let this destroy me. If I break, the bastards win.
I clench my jaw and add another item to my mental list.
Goal #4 - Get tough. Get even.
A vehicle approaches from somewhere behind me, shattering the morning silence, and proving things can definitely get worse.
Disturbing the peace like only a local could get away with, the stereo is cranked up to eleven, spewing a violent cacophony of untuned guitars, and vocals reminiscent of a pro-wrestler proselyting while hugging a toilet bowl.
The blinding yellow SUV draws parallel, and I identify the driver without even glancing up.
Death metal, Logan? How cliché.
Left foot. Right foot.
Left foot. Right foot.
The music stops, and the passenger window opens with an electronic whirr. I keep walking.
"Veronica Mars," Logan drawls, "Out for a walk of shame?"
Left foot. Right foot.
"Admirable form. Extra points for the dirty bare feet and the ripped dress. But I'll have to deduct a few for the hair. Still too neat and proper."
I should be used to this drill. Unlike the others, ignoring Logan won't make him go away. This is personal for him. Us.
So I brace myself and give him what he truly wants. My attention.
I turn, slipping into the role I've played for him lately - bored and indifferent, above anything he can throw at me. The facial equivalent of a yawn.
Logan plays his part as well. Huge smile, glittering eyes, razor-blade words wrapped in a jocular tone as he leans across the cab of his truck. "I guess that makes sense. Won't let them touch the hair, huh? Even whores can be frigid." A quick bob of his eyebrows.
I show no reaction, but my tight grip on the shoe straps is going to leave red marks later.
This face. I used to love it. I used to love him.
Not in the same way I loved Duncan, but like one loves a bratty older brother. A mixture of annoyance, hero worship, and blind trust.
His brows are the same unruly mess as always, his eyes, the same rich shade of brown. I recognize every freckle scattered across his nose and cheeks. Nothing has changed, yet that boy is gone forever.
Sixty-four days. All it took to turn my friend into a stranger.
Logan leans a little closer, the widening of his smile in sharp contrast to his clipped tone and the dangerous glint forming in his eyes. "So hey...do you watch the clock? Count down the seconds until it's over? Or maybe you close your eyes and pretend it's Duncan?"
He's pissed.
Actually. Fucking. Pissed.
I woke up violated and searching for my underwear, and Logan Echolls is angry because I might dare to live up to the reputation he and his buddies invented for me?
Something in me snaps. Suddenly, everything becomes clear.
This is Logan's fault.
Abandoning me when I needed his friendship most wasn't enough. Ejecting me from the group, leaving me shunned and outcast wasn't enough.
He could have let me walk away. Could've forgotten my existence. He's done it to plenty of others.
Instead, he finds new and sadistic ways every day to the twist the knife. His life's purpose is to make me miserable, while his mindless minions laugh from the sidelines.
He's convinced them all that I'm less than trash, so why wouldn't they follow his example and use me for laughs? Why wouldn't they take what they wanted from me?
It’s no different than garbage picking, right?
He'll never be happy until he's taken everything from me.
Hate sweeps through me like an inferno, torching the last remaining traces of affection.
I WILL FUCKING RUIN HIM!
I'm around the front of his truck and next to his window before he even registers my movement. I snatch him by the neckline of his tee-shirt and twist. I twist until it hurts. Until the fabric cuts off my circulation and turns my fingers white.
Logan's eyes widen with...what? Excitement?
You sick fuck!
"You did this!" My words are a strangled hiss. "You made this happen."
"Made what--" He takes in my appearance - gaze ticking from my bloodshot eyes to the mascara tracks on my cheeks, from the broken dress strap to the bruises on my upper arms. Color drains from his face and his mouth falls open. "Veronica?"
"What did you think would happen when you declared Open Season on me? Your minions were only following orders, right?"
"Hey. Whatever happened..." He exhales hard and begins again. "I didn't—“
"You may not have pulled the trigger, but you sure as hell aimed the gun."
He reaches up, touching me in what is probably supposed to be a comforting gesture. "I would never—“
I snatch my hand away, releasing his shirt. "You want to be King? Fine. But I'm holding you personally responsible for your subjects. You'll suffer for this. You, and whoever roofied and raped me."
Logan flinches as I confirm what he'd only suspected. Good. I hope guilt eats you from the inside out.
I jab an index finger in his face. "Get your toadies in check or you'll regret it. Whatever they do to me, will come back double on you. They spit on the sidewalk in front of me? They even look at me funny, and I'm punishing you. Are we clear?"
His jaw hangs slack, and his tongue moves as if trying to speak, but possessing no words.
I walk away, not giving him an opportunity to argue.
"Veronica..." Logan turns off the vehicle and jumps out. "Who roofied you?"
I keep walking. "You tell me."
"Get in, and I'll drive you to the hospital, okay?" He jogs to catch up, tries to put an arm around me.
"DON'T YOU FUCKING TOUCH ME!" I spin around, the crack of my hand across his face echoing like a gunshot off the surrounding mansions.
The pity ebbs from his eyes, replaced with a hate to match my own. "Fine, then walk, bitch."
"Long live the King!" I call after him, rubbing my stinging hand on my hip.
He burns rubber driving away.
Walking works just fine for me.
-:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:-
It's late afternoon. I've showered and changed - dark jeans and a pink cotton tee, damp in back from my long, wet braid.
I stand at my bedroom window, numb beyond caring.
I hadn't bothered obtaining a rape kit. After Lamb, what would be the point?
Dawn Simmons had named her rapist. Her case was investigated by my father, a highly-motivated and competent sheriff, and she had an eyewitness. Her attacker still walked.
For my part, I have a big black hole where my memory should be, and the other party-goers were hostile at best - not likely to help, even if they did see something.
Even if I had gone to the hospital, had allowed them to poke and prod me, scrape DNA from my already tender vagina, who's going to force the 09ers to give samples? Certainly not that heartless monster of a sheriff with a vendetta against anybody named Mars.
It's probably for the best. Neptune already turned on my dad for investigating Jake Kane. Imagine if it were their sons he was gunning for.
Even if I had a name - semen, a DNA match, six eyewitnesses - I'd be the one on trial.
Why was I there to begin with? Was I invited? Was I meeting somebody? A boy? How many boys have I dated? Did I go there with the intention of hooking up? To make a boy jealous? What was I wearing? How much did I drink? Do I drink regularly? Have I gotten blackout drunk in the past? Why would I accept a drink from an unknown source? Can anybody confirm I was handed this drink? If I can't remember, how do I know I didn't consent?
It's not even worth the effort.
Outside, a flat-bed tow truck stops on the road, then backs up into our parking lot, reverse-indicator beeping steadily. I slip on my green nylon pep squad jacket and exit my apartment.
I offer a half-hearted wave to the driver. I recognize Weevil Navarro well enough to exchange nods in the hallway at school, but we've never talked.
"Hey, girl." He hops out of the cab with a sympathetic grimace. "Got your car."
"I didn't know you drive a tow truck."
"Now and then, for my Uncle Angel. When I need cash."
The hateful graffiti from earlier has been erased. "Thank you for cleaning off my windshield."
"Yeah. That shit was harsh." He shakes his head, disgusted, and pushes a button that makes the flat-bed portion of the truck extend straight out. "Lilly would have ripped them to shreds for treating you that way."
"You knew Lilly?" This shouldn't be surprise me. He's Lilly's favorite type. Male.
"Yeah, she was a...friend. A friend who thought the world of you, Blondie." The sadness in his eyes reminds me so much of Logan that it's not a huge leap to wonder if Weevil had once been in love with her.
He tugs on a thick pair of yellowish suede gloves, and goes to work removing wooden blocks from behind my tires. "It hasn't escaped my notice the way those rich assholes turned on you after she died. Why're they fucking with you like that?" Another button press and the bed descends into a ramp.
I shrug. "They never really liked me. They only tolerated me because of Lilly and Duncan."
"Ballsy move to crash their party." He shows me his teeth. "I'm impressed. Didn't know you had it in you."
Ballsy? First time I've ever been called that.
Not the last, I decide.
"And then there's Logan..." I sigh, struggling to find the right words.
"Echolls!" Weevil spits out of the side of his mouth in loathing. "He think he's the only one who's ever lost anyone?"
"He thinks I betrayed Duncan, who is, incidentally, the same guy who dumped me without an explanation. But really he just needs to make somebody suffer and I'm the lucky girl."
Weevil works the control knobs, and a thick chain begins unwinding, slowly lowering my LeBaron. "Seems to me like you're making excuses for him." In an exaggerated falsetto voice he continues, fluttering his considerable eyelashes. "Poor Logan! All of that pain!"
My harsh laugh sounds strange to my own ears. "Trust me. I'm three steps ahead of you."
"How so?" He drops to the ground reaching deep under my vehicle and dislodging the hook.
"Logan had the misfortune of harassing me on the street this morning. Let's just say he knows I'm coming for him."
He arches a brow. "You sure about that? That thick-headed sonofabitch can be a little slow on the subtext."
"I tried strangling him with his own tee-shirt. Put him on notice that he's responsible for his minions. Every time they step out of line, he'll pay the consequences."
"Dayum, Girl!" Weevil hops back up and shakes his head, with an impressed grin. "No wonder Lilly loved you. You ever need my help carrying out those consequences, you let me know." He looks way too enthusiastic about the prospect.
"Count on it!" I smile at him. I can still smile. Good to know.
"OK, Veronica. Go put on some old clothes, and I'll teach you how to change a tire. I have a feeling you'll be an expert by the time Richie Rich gets his goons under control."
-:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:-
For Operation Annihilate Logan Echolls to be successful, I'm going to require intel. For example: knowing everything he does, everywhere he goes, and everything he says.
It’s early evening when I arrive at the Echolls estate prepared with a handful of borrowed gadgets from Mars Investigations. The security code on the gate hasn't changed since Lilly's death, and, within minutes of arriving, I'm slipping into Logan's bedroom.
Through the partially-cracked bathroom door comes the sounds of running water and off-key singing. He's in the shower. I'll need to work fast.
His laptop sits open on his desk. No password protection. Fool!
Extracting a small device from my pocket, I plug it into his USB drive. It goes to work installing Overwatch - an undetectable spy program granting me complete access to the machine and logging everything he does. I can view his activity remotely - real time, or at my convenience.
While it installs, I scan the bedroom for inspiration.
A silver valet tray on his dresser holds his daily necessities. Liquid sloshes as I pick up the leather wrapped flask Lilly bought him for Christmas. I eye it speculatively, but ultimately decide this is about taking Logan down, not giving him a bad case of Visine-generated diarrhea.
I quickly attach a voice-activated bug to the back of his headboard. Snatching his mobile phone from the nightstand, I open the battery compartment and insert an even tinier bug. With my own phone, I snap pictures - front and back - of each credit card in his wallet. As I'm returning them to their slots, a photo slips out and my stomach twists.
I recognize the picture from five months ago in this very room. Lilly snooping through his wallet, while Logan whined half-heartedly about his privacy. 'Check this out, Veronica,' she'd waved me over. 'We're totally adorable!' And we are, in our Pep Squad uniforms, arms wrapped tight around each other, and smiling as if we'll both live forever.
It's creased down the middle now, and folded so that he never has to look at my face again. I swallow around the lump in my throat, consider ripping the picture in half, and rescuing my photographic image from its permanent view of his Game Stop frequent shopper punch card. But I can't leave any evidence, so I sigh and return the photo to where I found it.
The shower turns off, and I rush to the computer to check on the spy program. Still installing. Ninety percent.
Damn!
I freeze in place as the bathroom door opens. Logan walks out, amidst a cloud of steam. His eyes are on a container of deodorant in his right hand, while his left reaches up to his throat, feeling around for a pukka shell necklace that isn’t there. He spins on the ball of his foot, returning to the bathroom to retrieve it.
Not wasting another second, I dive into his closet, hiding behind a long canvas garment bag and twisting the knob as I close the door, to prevent it from clicking.
Please let everything he needs be in his dresser!
Of course, I'm not that lucky. Footsteps draw near, the closet door wrenches open and a light goes on overhead.
I flatten myself against the wall, heart beating out of my chest, and will my feet to become invisible.
An overpowering aroma of soap engulfs the small space. Logan hums an old Candlebox song, and thick aluminum hangers clink together as he searches for a shirt.
He reaches past me, setting the garment bag to swaying and I catch glimpses of wet skin and a patch of dark hair disappearing into the front of his towel.
I'm afraid to even breathe.
Can't you go gel your hair or something?
He stretches further, reaching for something in the back. His inner elbow is mere inches from my nose and I can almost taste the Listerine on his exhales.
Jesus Fucking Christ, get me out of here before I end up pissing myself!
I don’t think Logan would harm me physically, but after this morning, I'm in no hurry to test the theory.
He tugs a long-sleeved orangish-pink shirt from its hanger and turns away, leaving the door cracked.
Dresser drawers glide open, close again, and his footsteps shuffle back to the bathroom.
I inhale like a near-drowning victim finally reaching the surface.
A hairdryer starts up and I slip out of the closet.
The spy program has finished installing. I eject the USB device, quickly configuring the settings for remote access, then slip out the balcony door. I pause on my way out of the estate to plant a GPS tracker under the bumper of his SUV.
If I'm lucky, I'll be able to find and retrieve Dad's gadgets - once Logan has learned his lesson. If not, I may need to get a second job to pay for replacements.
-:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:-
Tap tap.
The knock startles me and I quickly close both laptops - the old one and the new - before my dad can discern what I'm up to.
I compose my face into something resembling normal. "Come in."
The door swings open. "So I followed the money trail on the Johnson case, and you wouldn't believe who…" Dad's gaze lands on my face and he trails off. "Veronica? Is everything okay?"
Damn. He knows me too well.
What's left of the old me wants to bury myself in the comfort of his embrace. But even a hug might lead to tears. And tears would lead to sobs. And sobs would lead to my father blaming himself for what happened to me. To him tracing all my troubles back to the day he decided to go after Jake Kane.
He's dealing with enough self-reproach already due to my missing mother and our reduced living situation. Even now he sweeps a critical eye over my tiny bedroom, mentally comparing it to my old one. Rebuking himself.
He doesn't need to be burdened by this.
I reach for an inner reserve of strength, and smile instead. "Never been better."
Dad examines my face for a long moment and sighs. He knows I won't budge. This is what we do now - protect each other from painful truths.
"How was the party last night?" he asks.
Here we go, Veronica. You can pull this off.
"It was..." I sigh and finish the sentence by blowing the raspberries. Distract with humor. "I think I'm just over the 09er crowd. Without Lilly around..."
He nods, but still eyes me with suspicion.
"So?" I change the subject. "The money trail on the Johnson case? Who was the blackmailer?"
Dad grins. "You'll never believe it."
I hold up an index finger, "The grandmother."
His smile falters. "How did you...?"
"Figure it out? Just a hunch. Nobody's that sweet."
He gives me a sad little head shake. "I miss my optimistic daughter who saw the best in everybody. Ever since..."
"Lilly?"
He nods and kisses my forehead. "You become more cynical every day. You're too young to be this jaded."
Guilt sits like a cement block on the floor of my belly. Just another way in which I'm letting him down. "I call it realistic."
His lips pinch together, but he lets it drop. He fills me in on the details of the case, and I laugh at all the punchlines.
See? All is well. Status Quo.
Dad stands to leave and pauses. "What's this?" He picks up the device charging on my dresser.
"Um…the taser you bought me?"
"The one you said you didn't need?" His eyes narrow-in on me like a hawk to a rabbit. "What really happened last night?"
"Nothing."
"You were adamant that you didn't need to carry a taser."
I sigh. "There was a moment when I wished I had it. Some 09er tried to get grabby-hands with me when I didn't return his amorous attentions, and I had to knee him in the balls."
"WHO?"
"I don't know."
He pushes, "Was it Logan Echolls?"
I bark out a bitter laugh. "Logan is the last person who wants my amorous attention."
Dad raises his eyebrows.
I laugh again. "It was just some generic 09er. You know those hair-gelled white boys all look alike. They should color-code their wardrobes or something, so we can tell them apart."
He stares at me for a several long and uncomfortable seconds. Trying to read my mind. I return his gaze with a benign smile.
Finally he sighs and shakes his head. "Veronica...if there's something you're not telling me..."
"Everything is fine. I promise!"
He gives me "the look" once more and leaves the room.
The lying and evasion have created a tight pressure in my upper chest. I press a hand to the area and count to ten, then return to what I was working on when he knocked.
My parents gave me the new laptop for my birthday this year. My old laptop will now be dedicated to spying on Logan.
I finish configuring the settings from my end and launch a test run. According to the log, he hasn't touched his computer since I left his house. Not surprising, as he'd been getting ready to go somewhere.
In a different window, I pull up the GPS tracker and locate the blinking pinpoint indicator of Logan's location.
What the hell is he doing on this side of town?
-:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:--:¦:-
A thermos of hot coffee cuts the evening chill while Backup snores softly in the back seat.
I'm not sure what compelled me to leave my warm, safe, apartment, where my father naps contentedly in an armchair, to follow the GPS tracker to Dog Beach.
I could have walked. I want to be fearless. But the possibility of being surrounded by these people without the option of a quick getaway makes cold fingers of fear crawl up my spine. I'm not ready. Yet.
I tuck the LeBaron behind an oversized pickup, granting me an unencumbered view of the action on the beach. It's dark enough to shield my presence to all but the closest of observers.
Wood smoke and loud music drifts through my open windows, bringing with them memories I would rather not dwell upon.
Move on, Veronica. She's never coming back.
Dozens of bodies surround the flames, sipping from red cups or bouncing in time to the music.
Linkin Park sings about being 'one step closer to the edge', and I wish the concept didn’t so perfectly describe my life.
Mere days ago, witnessing this scene would have filled me with an intense longing. To participate. To be welcomed as part of the crowd again. To wear Duncan's jacket and snuggle against his side.
But last night's events robbed me of more than my virginity and my faith in humanity. Witnessing another girl tonguing Duncan's neck while he stared right through me stole my last hope of him regaining his senses and coming back to me.
It’s over. For good.
Logan's silhouette stands out in the bonfire flames - easily distinguishable from the other boys with his swan-like neck, his sloped shoulders, and his unique way of moving. I would recognize him anywhere.
He floats among the partygoers as if his body isn't subject to the laws of gravity. Play-fighting with the guys. Sliding an arm around the girls. Enthralling them all.
He throws back his head in laughter and it hurts. A lot.
I’d thought I’d witnessed a speck of humanity in him this morning. A hint of give-a-damn. That he can go out and have a grand old time twelve hours after learning of my rape – with these people - solidifies my resolve to go after him.
Were we ever friends at all? Did I only imagine he used to care about me?
He moves to another cluster of 09ers, claps one of them on the shoulder, and aggressively maneuvers the guy away from the group. Outside the firelight, I can't make out their features. Logan crosses his arms over his chest, body language closed-off. His companion puts up a denial - rapid head shakes, hands lifted in a 'trust me' gesture, and repeatedly pointing back to his friends. Logan waits him out, then, apparently convinced, give the guy a 'no hard feelings' slap on the back. They return to the fire, and I lift my camera, zooming-in.
Tad Wilson? They can pummel each other to death for all I care.
There's something sneaky and ugly about that guy. I've never liked him, and I can't, for the life of me, imagine what Carmen Ruiz sees in him. He sneaks up behind her now, lifts her off her feet and spins her around in a circle. Back on the ground, Carmen rubs a hand over her forehead as if to ease a headache.
A whimper from behind me. I glance over my shoulder, but it's only Backup, in the throes of a doggy nightmare. I scratch him behind the ear, and he cracks an eyelids, watching me dolefully.
In the moments since I looked away, Logan has attached himself to the mouth of some blonde, and appears to be trying to lick her esophagus. I lift my camera again to get a closer look. Caitlin Ford. Gross. I'm thoroughly insulted on Lilly's behalf.
He breaks off to take a long swig of whatever's in his red cup, then moves off to talk to Duncan.
My ex-boyfriend looks positively glacial tonight. He lingers at the edge of the crowd, and jerks away violently when Logan touches his arm.
They exchange words, only their emotions translating through my viewfinder - hostility on one side, confusion on the other.
Did Duncan find out about my rape?
It occurs to me that Logan's under no obligation to keep my secret. In fact, after slapping him this morning, I should prepare myself for everyone to find out.
I hate how much this idea bothers me. The shame that pools in my belly at the implication of Duncan no longer seeing me as pure and virginal. Clean.
Logan walks away, returning moments later with a second beer and holding it out like a peace offering. Rather than accepting, Duncan slaps the red cup out of his hand and storms off, leaving his bewildered BFF behind.
I duck as he approaches and climbs into his BMW. He presses his forehead to the steering wheel for what feels like an eternity before finally starting the vehicle.
He looks miserable, and for a moment, I consider checking on him. The moment passes and he peels out of the parking lot.
I lift my camera.
Caitlin Ford – lips pursed and eyes narrowed – comes up on my viewfinder. I follow her gaze to where Logan is now kissing a different blonde. A sweet freshman named Stacey Harris.
Pig.
He whispers something to her, and they move away from the fire, towards the sand dunes.
The song ends, replaced with the haunting opening notes of, Krwling, that Linkin Park/Aaron Lewis remix of the song, Crawling.
Time seems to slow and hairs lift on the back of my neck.
It was summer. Late July. Hours spent with Lilly, floating on rafts in the the Echolls' immense, magnolia-bottomed pool, while the boys, predictably, made nuisances of themselves.
The Kane siblings left at sundown, when Celeste called them home for dinner, leaving me to wait for my own mother.
It was bad enough when Lianne arrived an hour late and reeking of booze, but somehow, while following Mrs. Navarro from the entrance to the media room, she managed to knock over a display table, shattering a priceless piece of art and slicing up her forearm.
Chaos ensued. Mom in tears, apologizing profusely, while Logan's mom waved her hands futilely and pretended she knew literally anything about dressing wounds. Aaron Echolls emerged from his study, taking in the scene with blatant disgust. He turned his cold, dark gaze on me, as if trying to imagine an older, sloppy-drunk version, then withdrew from the room with a weary head shake.
Logan stood on my right, crunching on an apple and watching it all go down. 'Crawling in my skin' he whisper-sang under his breath, only adding to my humiliation. “Come on.” He tugged on my arm pulling towards the staircase.
I dragged my heels, looking back over my shoulder.
“Relax. They’re probably comparing favorite vodka brands or hangover remedies. Let her sober up for a while.”
Just like that.
Didn’t he know there were rules about these things? Drunk moms are the elephants in the room. Not topics for discussion.
Up in his room, he slid a CD into the player, pressed a few buttons on his remote, and the room filled with the wails of a violin. Or was it a viola? A fiddle? Whatever the instrument, the opening was an eerie, mournful sound.
"You ever hear this version before?" he asked, flopping down on his bed like a rag doll.
"No," I muttered, still unnerved. By his words. By his intense stare. By the expectation that I was supposed to say something smart or witty.
It occurred to me then that Logan was trying to bond. To anchor this ugly reality we both shared in a way the Kanes could never understand.
I laughed aloud, because it was just so. very. Logan. He laughed too, nudged me playfully with his socked foot, and the tension abated.
Afterwards, when the song came on – any version – we would share that secret glance. He and I. Charter members of an exclusive Drunk Mothers Club.
Tonight, at the opening notes, Logan stops in his path across the sand and turns around. Not towards the music. Not towards the fire.
Towards me.
Me. Under cover of darkness, hidden in the parking lot behind half a dozen cars.
He lifts his red cup in the air, as if in tribute, and my pulse jumps right out of my throat.
He can't see me. Right? There's no possible way he can know I'm here?
My pulse throbs erratically in my throat and I’m on the verge of turning the key and getting the fuck out of Dodge, when I realize it’s my apartment he’s saluting. It's in a straight path behind me.
Still…my chills have chills.
He drops his arm, throws his other one around Stacey's shoulders, and begins leading her away again.
There's a pounding in my ears and my fists curl around the steering wheel.
Fuck him! Fuck him! FUCK HIM!
We are not a secret club.
We are not friends.
YOU destroyed everything.
I dig out my cell phone, blocking my number before dialing with trembling fingers.
"Harris," a voice answers.
"Deputy Harris?"
"That's what I said. Who's this?"
"A friend. Just wanted you to know your daughter is at Dog Beach, heading off towards the dunes with Logan Echolls."
"Logan Echolls, huh?" The man repeats, voice reeking of dollar signs.
I raise my voice, not bothering to hide my disdain. "Yes, Logan Echolls. Who never leaves home without a flask and has a reputation for his persuasive skills with the ladies. Protect your daughter, sir. These 09er boys don’t have any limits." I hang up.
On my way home, two squad cars fly past, sirens wailing and lights flashing.
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I lay in bed for hours, storms raging inside me. Sleep won’t come, but it’s probably for the best. I’m not ready to dream.
I pass the time thinking of Logan. Ways to hurt him. Ways to topple him from his throne. Ways to make him pay.
Finally, I give up, tossing back my blanket in frustration.
I head to the kitchen for a glass of water, then follow the sound of loud snores into the living room.
“Dad.” I shake his shoulder. “Go sleep in your bed.”
“What time?” he mumbles.
“Almost 3:00 AM.”
My father rubs his eyes, scratches his knee, and shuffles off to his room without another word.
I slip on a hoodie for warmth and sink down onto the couch for some serious channel surfing.
I skip past the talk shows and infomercials, finally settling on a cable documentary about a nomadic lioness in the Serengeti.
Faced with the threat of starvation on one side, and the pride of lions that killed her mate on the other, she fights for the survival of her two cubs.
I’m transfixed by her grace as she stalks her prey, head lowered, tension coiled between her shoulders. Every step placed carefully for maximum stealth.
My throat thickens, and I experience a primal sort of kinship with this magnificent animal.
A flash of a memory. August. The ring of my cell waking me from sleep.
“Hello?”
“Happy Birthday, Leo girl!” Lilly yelled into the phone. She always had the be the first to say it. “I’m positive that this is the year you’ll finally release your inner lioness.”
I yawned and rolled my eyes, feeling more like a lazy house cat. “Inner lioness, Lil?”
“Let her prowl, Veronica Mars! Hell, let her scratch and bite a little. If that’s your thing.”
“You want me to scratch and bite your brother?”
“Ewww. I SO did not need that visual.” After a moment of silence, Lilly burst out in laughter. “But can you even imagine? You would traumatize the Donut for life. He’s more of a rabbit, if we’re being honest.”
I pulled my pillow over my face to block out the morning light and grinned. “Well we can’t be traumatizing poor Duncan now, can we? Guess I’d better keep my 'inner lioness' caged for another year.”
“Or…” Lilly began, as if having a flash of genius. “We could find you somebody a little higher up the food chain. Someone who would bite back. Wild things should never be caged, Veronica Mars.”
Her words made me shiver for some indefinable reason. “What happened to me marrying Duncan and us being sisters forever?”
“We’re already sisters in our hearts, silly,” Lilly said. “The only perk to making it legal would be Celeste having to pass you the gravy boat at Thanksgiving.”
“Somehow, I think her hand would slip, and it would end up on my lap.”
“And then she’d belittle you for wearing stained clothing.”
I smile through hot tears.
Lilly had always seen something greater in me. Something strong and powerful and a little dangerous.
I have no idea if she's out there somewhere, watching over me. I like to think that she is, and as God is my witness, I intend to make her proud.
Onscreen, the lioness pounces, takes down a zebra. Finally she can feed her young cubs.
What she doesn’t know is that she’s attracted the attention of a hungry pack of hyenas.
They wait for her to make the kill, hanging back under cover of the tree line. Snapping and snarling. Chittering in a way that lifts the hair on the back of my neck and makes my skin pull tight in revulsion.