The Pickup
-E.M.-
It helps to be attractive.
Well, it does for me anyway.
I remember reading about some research in The Independent newspaper that said that attractive people earned up to twenty four percent more than those considered unattractive. A survey of two thousand lawyers also showed that the best looking were more likely to be offered key promotions. There's also been some research that found that kids were more responsive to attractive people.
I usually take this so called, 'research' with a grain of salt, but I have to admit, it's been true for me so far.
You see, people seem to trust me easily. People are always so nice to me, so polite, so willing to be helpful. All I have to do is flash them my pearly whites in a cheeky grin, and I'll soon have them eating out of my hand.
It's like, no one expects a good looking person to be bad. From when we're young we have this unfortunate notion fed to us. In fairytales the prince is always handsome, the princess always beautiful, and the evil characters are mostly ugly. Even as adults, when we see the news and some serial killer has been caught, and it shows us his mug-shot, if he's ugly we're like, "Well, it's not surprising really, I mean, you can tell he's evil just by looking at him." If he's good looking we shake our heads in disbelief and say, "I would never have thought it. What a waste, he's such a good looking guy too." It's human nature.
So although I'm technically the Transporter, I often get used as 'bait' too, along with Rosalie. I don't mind really, I mean, it's all part of the job. It's also made it a whole lot easier to transport people too, because they don't see it coming. I mean, even if they owe a fuckload of money, and they know that the person they owe is gonna come after them, they don't expect that the tall, young, good looking guy who has suspiciously cornered them in an alleyway – just to ask for directions – has anything to do with it. That is, of course, until I pull out my 9mm pistol and hold it to their temple. But by then it's too late.
Of course, having a London accent also helps a lot. Especially with the women. All I'd have to say is, 'hello' and they'd gawp at me in wonder, immediately succumbing to my every word. It's quite funny really.
I had a feeling my task was going to be relatively easy. Jasper had already found out all the details about her. I knew where she lived, where she worked, what she looked like. All I had to do was be at the right place at the right time.
Bella Swan wouldn't even know what was happening until it was too late.
The guy who had hired me to bring her to him was gonna pay me a ton of money for it. He seemed like he was desperate for her, and I have to admit, I'm curious as to why. But you never ask questions with this job, you just get on with it. Most times it's best not to know anyway. If it was a package I wouldn't even ever know what was in it. I would have just dumped it in my boot, dropped it off to wherever I had been told to, and picked up my cash.
Of course, as she isn't a package, and she's still alive, it's not going to be as easy. But I've transported people before, and have never had any huge problems, so I'm not worried.
I scan the crowd of people filing out of the squared, red bricked school building.
There are loads of kids of course, running out of the school and over to the parking lot excitedly, their parents following them, beaming proudly at them in a way only a parent knows how. I briefly wonder if my parents would be proud to know that I'd abandoned my plans to be a psychologist and was now the type of person they loathed, the type of person they would have to defend in Court, just because they were paying them – with drug money ironically – even though they knew damn well that they were guilty. No, they probably wouldn't be too proud. In fact, my dad would probably personally fly over here and drag me back to London by my ear.
Suddenly I spot her.
I straighten up, my attention completely on her now. I flex my fingers around the wooden handle in my jeans pocket, my index finger tracing along the ridges of cool metal. I grin.
She's walking amidst the clutter of elementary school kids, holding a bundle of cloths I assume are the costumes from the school play they'd just had. They kids are shouting excitedly at her, hugging her around her waist, trying to hold her hand, despite the fact that she looks like she's about to drop the pile she's holding. She's smiling though, seemingly listening intently to the kids as they share their stories enthusiastically, and she nods and replies with, "Oh wow, that's great Dean, well done!" and "Oh really Susan? That must be exciting!"
I find myself smiling. She seems quite sweet actually, humouring all the little buggers. I wouldn't have the patience.
Eventually she makes it to her car, which – not coincidentally – is parked only one car down from mine. She doesn't spot me at first, too busy handling the bundle in her arms. She leans against her car – an old, banged up Honda Civic – and places the costumes on the top of the bonnet, digging around in the pocket of her trousers for a moment before she pulls out her keys. She walks around the car to the boot and unlocks it – still not seeing me.
When she walks back around to the front of the car to go pick up the costumes again, I decide to finally make my move.
I put on my best, charming smile, hands still casually in my pockets, as I saunter over to her. She sees me briefly, turns her attention back to the costumes, then does a double take, glancing up at me again in surprise, her eyes widening minutely. I smile wider, and she smiles back timidly. I lean casually against the door of the driver side of her car – that way, even if she tries to make a quick getaway, she won't be able to get in her car.
"Hi." I say.
"Hey." She replies. She holds my gaze but fiddles about with her keys in her hand absently. She's nervous.
She hasn't noticed my accent yet, I mean, you can't really distinguish accents from a word like 'hi'. It's a pretty accent-less word.
"You work at the school?" I ask, though I obviously know she does. It's all part of the facade.
Her eyes widen again quickly as she registers my accent, then she smiles and nods. "Um, yeah, I do. I'm only a teaching assistant though."
I knew this too.
I nod. "I'm just here to pick up my nephew for my sister. I didn't make it in time for the play."
She nods, and we're silent for a brief moment. "Um, you have an accent." She says uncertainly. "Are you Australian?"
I almost laugh out loud, but suppress it into a smirk. "No, English actually."
"Oh right!" She slaps her forehead lightly in embarrassment. "Sorry, I'm really bad at accents. I like your accent though." She says, turning pink.
I smile again. "Thank you."
She moves to start lifting the bundle, and walks over to the boot again – going around the side of the car I'm not standing on. I watch her in amusement for a moment.
"Do you need a bit of help?" I ask, also walking around to the boot, standing behind her. She almost drops the clothes, and I reach out and catch them before they hit the ground. "Here you go." I say, handing her the item that had dropped from the pile. She blushes again when I meet her eyes.
"Thanks." She mumbles.
"No problem. Can I know your name, beautiful?" I ask with a grin.
Smooth.
Although I've seen the picture of her, and I'm pretty sure I have the right person, it's best to be one hundred percent certain.
She blushes before she replies, "Bella."
Bingo.
I raise my eyebrows in mock surprise. "Bella eh? Fitting name."
She smiles bashfully, remaining pink as she mumbles. "Thank you."
And it's not a lie. She is pretty. The picture of her that Jasper had managed to dig up didn't do her much justice.
She's small, not as small as Alice, but I still tower over her. She's about 5,2 at most, slim, but I can see she has curves. Her white jumper is straining across her chest, her grey pants are snug around her thighs, and when she leans into the boot, dumping the costumes in it, I notice her arse is round, and firm looking.
She's olive toned, yet she's pale, but she looks like she tans easily. Her hair is a very dark brown, or a black, I can't tell, but she has bright red highlights all through it. It's tied up in a messy looking bun, but I can tell it's probably quite long. Her face is narrow and heart shaped, and she has a widow's peak accentuating the heart shape even more. She's got high cheekbones and full red lips, her bottom lip jutting out a little as it's plumper than the top one. Her eyes are large, and a light brown, long, sooty lashes surrounding them.
She's more than pretty in fact, I think. She looks somewhat exotic. That's probably the Italian in her. Her mother, Renee Fuschino, is Italian American. We needed to research her too because Bella lives with her here in Phoenix, and we needed to see what would have been an appropriate lie to put in the note to her that will explain Bella's sudden disappearance. Luckily for us, her mother didn't seem like a worrier. In fact, Renee Fuschino often took spontaneous trips herself, also only leaving Bella a note before she left.
So we left a note for her in Bella's name, 'Hey mom, needed a little break, gone to New York to stay with Angela. Be back in a few days! Love, Bella.' Jasper's brilliant. He had even looked up Bella's old friends to make the note more convincing. Angela Webber is a journalist intern in New York and she's been Bella's best friend since high school. Bella still keeps in contact with her, in fact, she had spoken to her only two days ago; so it wouldn't have been odd for her to go visit. Perfect.
I move to stand behind her as she locks the car boot, almost pressing my body into her nice arse. Yeah, she's pretty hot, which is why I feel a slight twinge of guilt as I snake my left arm around her waist, holding her firmly as I press the cold metal of the 9mm, double barrelled, Derringer pistol to her side.
She gasps when she feels my arm, but I don't think she's spotted the gun yet. I push it into her side, harder, and she glances down at it, immediately stiffening. I know she's probably about to scream, so I move my left hand from her waist, and clamp it over her mouth. I can feel her hot breath on my palm as she pants in fright, and I bring my mouth up to her right ear.
"Scream and I'll blow your bloody guts out. You hear me?" I whisper calmly. I can do menacing, but I'm sure the girl's scared enough, no need to make her worse.
She nods frantically, her head bobbing up and down like a rag doll.
Of course I'm not really going to shoot her, even if she does scream. My instructions were to bring her alive. I don't shoot people unless it's absolutely necessary anyway.
"Now, I'm gonna let go of your mouth, if you scream you know what'll happen. We're gonna walk over to my car," I jerk my head in the direction of the Vanquish, "and then you're gonna get in calmly, like everything's fine. Got it?"
A deep sob escapes her throat, and I feel her hot, wet tears dripping onto my fingers over her mouth. But she nods again.
I march her one car down the parking lot to my car, still pressed against her arse as if I was attached to it by my dick. I let go of her mouth – though my arm is back around her waist immediately afterwards – and I struggle to try to reach my car keys in my jeans pocket. It's impossible for me to do unless I let go of her, and if I use the hand holding the gun, she'll try to escape, and if I let go of her waist and use that hand, she'll try to escape. I groan in frustration.
"Reach back into my pocket, and pull out my keys." I say.
She complies, fingers shaking as they fumble blindly behind her. She pats my front, searching for my pocket, and her hand brushes against my dick. I try not to react, but it's difficult. I've got a gorgeous girl with a fantastic gluteus maximus practically pressed to my dick, and then she touches it. It's impossible not to get a hard on. It's really bloody inappropriate though. She finally finds my pocket and digs into it, retrieving the key in one trembling hand.
I snatch it from her and press the button that unlocks the car from the outside only. Rosalie is a fucking genius when it comes to cars. I open the passenger side and shove her inside, holding the Derringer up to her wide, terrified eyes as she cowers in the leather seat. As I look into her eyes there's that twinge of guilt again. I hastily brush it away.
"No point tryna escape from the car darling, it doesn't open from the inside. Don't bother tryna smash the windows either, they're bulletproof." I say with a smug smirk, before shutting the door on her and placing the gun back in my pocket.
I turn away from the car and pull out my phone from my back pocket. I press the speed dial and call Alice. She answers after one ring. "I've got her Alice, what's the address?" I say.
TTT
~B.S.~
I am such a fucking idiot!
Why Bella? I ask myself as I stare at his form from behind the tinted, bulletproof window. Why don't you ever learn? I was always sucked in by good looks, always became so trusting, so enticed, so fucking stupefied by a guy with a pretty face. Same thing had happened with Jake. Why didn't I learn my lesson? My mom has always warned me that it would get me in big trouble one day. Well thanks a fucking bunch for being a jinx mom, because this right here is a whole heap of trouble.
He's still on his cell phone, talking low so I can't make out what he's saying in that sexy accent of his. God I love British guys. And this guy right here, well, he's totally my favourite brand of male. He is fucking hot. I mean, I couldn't believe my eyes when I spotted him.
He's tall, looking to be round about 6,2. He's lean, but through the snug fitting black t shirt he's wearing I can easily see the faint outline of his musculature, meaning that he probably works out. I can even see a slight swell in his bicep as he holds the phone to his ear.
His hair is a dark reddish brown, and it's all messed up, looking like he's just come back from having sex or something. He turns around again, walking over to the car and I gasp in fear, though honestly it's also because I'm once again stunned by his beautiful face. Really, how can such a gorgeous guy like him turn out to be a lunatic? What a waste.
His features are very sharp, chiselled like a Greek sculpture. His nose is perfectly straight, his jaw line bending at a damn near right angle, his cheekbones are high and defined, he has a slight cleft in his chin, and his eyes, which I can't see the colour of, are hooded by thick, prominent eyebrows. His lips though, are a contrast to all that sharpness. They look soft, and full, and pink, and utterly kissable.
And I think I've officially lost it. I'm being kidnapped, or whatever, by a crazy guy, not knowing what the hell he has planned for me. I mean, I could be raped, tortured, murdered by this nut job, and all I can do is check him out! You've really outdone yourself this time, Swan. I think.
He gets into the driver seat and slams the door shut.
"You should put your seatbelt on." He says, buckling up his own seatbelt. "And don't touch anything." He adds, starting up the engine.
I barely have time to grab my seatbelt before I'm almost thrown against the dashboard at the speed at which he accelerates. He glances at me as I struggle to right myself on the leather seat, and his lips twitch at the corners. He looks like he wants to laugh, though I can't possibly think of anything funny right now. I grab the seatbelt and fasten it, and he tears out of the parking lot as if the devil himself is chasing him.
I sit silently, still shaking with fear slightly as we drive on, sneaking glances at him to see if I can get any reading on my situation. His face is expressionless as he stares at the road intently, and I finally see that his eyes are a very light turquoise colour. They're about the same colour as the sea around a tropical island, and about as clear as it too. I've never seen eyes like that before. They're beautiful. I can't tear my own eyes away from them, and I continue to stare at them from the side of my eye. He notices me looking after a while, because his turquoise irises move to the corner of his eye sockets to look back at me, and his eyebrow elevates ever so slightly. I quickly look away.
I try to pay attention to the road now, with hope that if I can manage to escape him I will remember the way back from wherever he's taking me. Yeah right Swan, you can't even remember the way back to your mom's house after coming back from the grocery store. I groan quietly, and he shoots me a questioning look, but remains silent.
It's too silent for me. It's making me even more unnerved if that were possible, so I lean forward slowly, trying not to make any sudden movements, because the guy still has a gun on him. I reach out my left hand slowly to the radio...
"Don't fucking touch anything!" He barks, and I snatch my hand back quickly, cringing in fear, and leaning away from him towards the door.
And it's as if I have finally snapped out of the odd, shock induced stage where I can't help ogling him, because I begin to cry, the real danger I'm in suddenly sinking in, until it feels like I'm drowning. Drowning in tears. I sob pathetically, and sniff noisily, and wipe at my face with my sweater, but the tears won't stop. It's like my tear ducts have burst open, and I can't fix the leak.
He ignores me for a while, his face remaining stoic. But as my crying progresses into breathless hiccups, I see his eyebrows are furrowed deeply. He turns to glare at me when we reach a stop light, his face incredulous.
"Jesus, haven't you cried enough woman?"
I blink at him in surprise, because that was definitely not what I was expecting him to say. I suck on my bottom lip which is trembling, and he continues glaring at me for a moment, before he huffs and throws his right hand in the air. I flinch.
"Fine, if I let you turn on the radio will you stop crying?" He asks, looking exasperated.
I notice I've already stopped crying – oddly – and I nod.
He gestures to the knobs. "Go on."
And then the light is green, and he's concentrating on the road again.
I reach out again timidly, and switch on the radio. It seems to be on a classical station which sounds pretty soothing right now, so I leave it there. He quirks his eyebrow, but says nothing.
After another long moment of silence, when I'm feeling better now that I've cried out most of my terror, I clear my throat and take a deep breath. I notice him glancing at me inquiringly, so I turn to him.
"Um, I don't mean to disturb you sir, but I was just wondering...What exactly are you gonna do to me?" I peek at him, and he's focused on the road again.
"I'm not gonna kill you." He answers.
I wait for more, but that's all he says, so I ask, "And, can you please just tell me where exactly we're going?"
He ignores me.
I sigh, leaning back against the headrest and closing my eyes.
I'm not gonna die, at least, and that knowledge comforts me a little, well, for a while anyway.
