She focuses on the shining stars in the midnight sky above her; she doesn't look at his face. He doesn't seem to mind. She feels her back roughly grazing against the concrete of his back porch as he thrusts into her; sure to leave skid marks and bruises. Won't be the first time. She has he legs wrapped around his waist to urge him on harder, faster. She wants more. She wants wrong, she wants sin, she wants ecstasy, she wants oblivion. She is no good girl.
Logan has his head buried against her neck, biting roughly at the sensitive flesh. She returns the favor by digging her long fingernails into the map of scars on his back; disturbing them and feeling the blood on her fingers. She thinks she likes it.
Logan is holding her hands down on the concrete, like if he doesn't, she'll just float away. She wishes she could float away. She focuses on the sky again; dark purple, color of bruises; color of grapes. Grapes from which wine comes, not water. She has to remember that.
She moans and arches her back, and finally looks him in the face. She sees the rather obvious question: Why are we doing this out here? Why not inside, where it is warm and not going to tear half your skin off, plus is much less likely the paparazzi will find us?
She doesn't have a real answer. She thinks she'd like those people with their busy prying cameras, with their lack of souls, to find her like this. Sweet perfect Meg Manning; flat on her back getting fucked by her ex's girlfriend's ex on rough concrete. Slut and a bitch and a whore who will take it anyway from the most destructive person; whore knocked up at seventeen – big shock – and the look on her parents' faces would be priceless.
The thinks of the baby as Logan thrusts into her again; the tangible proof of how fucked up she is. She used to want someone, anyone to notice. Now everyone's going to notice, it's just a matter of time – she gets it better now. The town whore with a baby to support, cast aside by her family – if not killed by them – and with nowhere to go..
She feels Logan in her, and wonders if this is actually safe for the baby. Then she wonders if she wants it to be. It would be so much easier to be rid of the stupid thing; clot of cells sliding out of her like the rubbish it is. Maybe Logan would grimace, maybe he would laugh – maybe he would hate her for it like everyone else would; she doesn't know.
She can't get rid of it the normal way – her parents have drilled that into her head long enough, and besides, if she needs to get rid of the baby, then it proves they've won. Proves she's broken, and she is, but she's too proud to admit it. She's always been good at keeping up her facade, and no-one is going to see her snap.
If she pushes if – tests the limits, runs herself raw – then it might just go away. She's not sure it will work – or even if she wants it to – but she does it all anyway.
Logan pulls sharply on her hair, tugging her closer to him and whispering another girl's name: "Lilly, Lilly, Lilly."
She doesn't mind. She knows how he wants to use her; wants to find anything that might get him closer to her – and reclaim that place his father stole. She laughs out loud, because she – always sweet perfect Meg – has become the closest thing to Lilly that can be found. She's one offering herself under the weight of the Echolls house; putting herself where she shouldn't be. Lilly always wanted fire, pain, real and Meg wants that too. Logan has that exact same kind of anger running through his veins as his father does, and if she's really lucky, giving herself up to him will just make her spread as easily on the pavement as Lilly did.
Oh what a relief that would be. Her parents would cry, as their obligatory role as grieving parents. Her sisters would miss her, and she would not have to carry their baggage anymore. This screaming, swirling, crawling thing inside her would go away, sink into the abyss with her and no-one would ever see the disgusting lump it is.
She moans again, holding onto Logan's shoulders for leverage and leaning up to whisper in his ear, "Harder." He gives it to her; grunting and panting and looking everywhere but her face. Meg closes her eyes and listens to the sound of the ocean tides; like a monster that can consume them all, like a fairy godmother that can send her to sleep.
Logan's words twist again against her ear, until he murmurs a different name: "Veronica."
Something in here snaps and, in her own head, she's screaming No, no, not again! Not Veronica! Not Veronica, not the blond beauty, not what was lost, not a pale imitation, not the wreckage; not fucking Veronica. She focuses her eyes on Logan for the first time as she pulls his closer, hammering his cock deeper inside her and planting frantic kisses on his lips. "Meg, Meg, Meg," she hisses against his lips, as if she can pour her identity into him and therefore make it real. "Meg, Meg; my fucking name is Meg; I am not your dead, whore or both ex-girlfriend, I am Meg and I am the one you're fucking into the pavement," she insists until he hits her with a particularly hard thrust and she arches back to moan again.
He smirks down at her. "Lilly. Veronica," he says and God she hates him. She reaches up to kiss him again; anything to shut him up and make keep Veronica out of her. She bites his lips until she tastes blood and rips the scars off his back, and it's all red red red like wine from the Holy Grail.
His hands grip her shoulders hard enough to leave bruises as he digs himself as far as he will go. A spasm runs through her and she comes, biting down on his shoulder to muffle her scream.
It's just a few seconds before he gives a sharp, curt cry and shoots inside her. She lets the warm, sticky white liquid fill her as he collapses at her side.
It's then that she lurches up in shock. What the hell was she just doing? Fucking Logan Echolls on the cold concrete; God, what is wrong with her. The way she had acted – God, the things she had thought... She doesn't want to lose the baby. She's not refusing to carry her sisters' weights around anymore. She's not fucking Lilly Kane any more than she is Veronica Mars, and she really does not want to die. Why did she think those things? Why did she do this with Logan?
They're lying in a pool of blood and come; the sight and the smell make her sicker and sicker. Logan just raises an eyebrow at her, perfectly casual. "You okay?" he asks.
She can only shake her head. No, she's not okay. She feels like some sort of demon is rising inside her and making her do things she'd never dream of; things she barely understands. She remembers the score she got on the purity test – she had barely done anything then (mostly out of fear of her parents) but now she's lying in the proof of her own sluttiness with her ex-boyfriend's ex-best friend.
Logan looks concerns, and reaches out to hold her wrist. She flinches away, blurting out "Don't touch me," and watching as the light in Logan's eyes gets darker and darker.
She stands abruptly, as hisses in pain as the scratches and bruises on her back start to sting. If she was going to implode by fucking Logan Echolls, why did she do it on rough concrete where anyone could see her and the pink welts won't fade for weeks? Why where it would make her have to look at the grazes day after day and be disgusted with this gluttonously violent impulse in her.
She grabs her clothes, throwing the on a panic. "This – this can't," she starts stuttering, tears welling in her eyes, "We didn't... God, we couldn't have. I wouldn't... Logan please," she pleads, not even sure what for. "You can't tell anyone; this – this never happened," she insists. "God, what did I do? What is wrong with me?"
Logan shrugs. "Whole world's fucked Meg. You'll be better off when you just admit it."
Her shoulders shake and she bristles. "Not me," she insists. "This was... the most awful, degrading experience of my life."
"Is that meant to hurt me?" he asked through laughter. She grits her teeth and digs her nails into her palm to keep herself under control.
"No. I don't care whether I hurt you or not," she says, and it's bitchy, but she's panicking. "Goodbye, Logan," she says, voice heavy with finality. He looks indifferent as she storms off, letting the thorny bushes that decorate the Echolls front garden scar her arms. She's bruised and bloody and well-fucked now; what difference will a few scratches make?
She makes sure she's a good distance away before she collapses on the sidewalk and stares at the blood seeping through her clothing, like wine she wishes she knew how to turn back into water.