Bella's truck breaks down and a dashing, beautiful stranger stops to help. Romance blooms. Truck starts. He leaves. Is there any hope for Bella's happily-ever-after? Oneshot, all-human, alternate universe.
. . . . .
Yes, I know I have been delinquent in updating Love in a Photograph... I am stuck on the details and not sure about the direction I want to go, and that (along with my new college schedule) has turned me into a terrible procrastinator. I am actually thinking of making it my NaNoWriMo project and reworking it a little—or just finally forcing myself to push through and finish it so you all can stop sending me desperate IMs begging for another chapter. :) To be honest, I really want to know how it all ends, too. So never fear—there will be more chapters and an ending.
In the meantime, here is a little something for the Jake fans.
The only person in real life who knows that I've dabbled in writing fan fiction asked me for a little Jake drabble when I got the chance, and I needed a break from my writing a term paper last night. So here's a belated birthday gift for you, K. I hope you all enjoy it.
. . . . .
Your old beast of a truck groans and grinds to a lurching halt on the curvy road. You're barely able to coax it to the shoulder before the engine chokes, cuts, dies.
Hands pulling hair in frustration, you lean your head back and stare at the fly-specked ceiling.
"Damn truck." You smack the ancient steering wheel with the heel of your hand for emphasis and engage the emergency brake. You know it would roll over you just to prove a point.
You open the door and struggle to release the hood. After a few hard yanks, the lever gives and the hood pops up an inch or two. With a sigh, you slide off the seat and onto the pavement and head to the front of the old machine.
With a grunt from you and a groan from the hood's hinges, the large slab of rusting metal rises overhead. You lean in to survey the dusty, dirty coils of metal and wire. You don't know what you're looking for, but you know you're not seeing it.
No smoke, no spark, no fire, nothing melted or broken or stinking.
You back away from the truck, worried you'll do damage to yourself if you kick it. You reach for the phone in your back pocket and realize you've left it on your bed. Brilliant. It could be an hour or more before your dad realizes you're missing, and it could be at least that long before you see another vehicle on this deserted road.
Tears turn your vision into soft focus, and you take a long, shaky breath. This day sucks.
You sulk back to the front seat and tuck yourself inside. Pulling your sweater over your hands, you curl your fingers around the steering wheel and press your eyes against the soft cloth. You let yourself cry for just a minute, just to relieve the stress.
The radio won't even work way out here, so you sit in silence, waiting for rescue.
Then, you hear it—a zipping, humming, increasing sound. A motorcycle. You fling open your truck door without thinking and start waving like a maniac. It's only after you see him that you realize what you've done.
He's huge. Hulking. Wearing a black leather jacket and big, black boots. He sees you and swerves in, sliding to a halt ten feet or so in front of your dilapidated jalopy. He swings one of those big, black boots over the bike and rises to six-and-a-half feet tall. You gulp unintentionally.
You're stranded and he knows it. You cross your fingers and hope he's a nice guy. Your dad taught you to know better. You steel yourself for eminent kidnapping, or worse.
As your father's daughter, you very well might be prepared to fight off a rapist or ax murderer. But you're not prepared for what you see when the giant motorcyclist takes off his helmet.
Thick, black hair in pressed-down spikes. Bronzed skin. Full lips. Eyes so deep you could drown in them. A jawline you would pay to lick.
You drop your eyes to the pavement and beg any god who will listen to grant you uncharacteristic grace and charisma.
"Having a little car trouble?" His voice sounds like your happily-ever-after, and you find yourself looking up at him through batting lashes.
"Yeah. She just sputtered and stopped. I popped the hood, but I couldn't see anything out of the ordinary." You impress even yourself with the words coming out of your mouth. You sound confident, brave. Like you have some idea of how your truck works and had a hope of finding and repairing a problem.
He flashes a blinding smile at you and deposits his helmet on the seat of his bike. He runs his fingers through his hair, returning it to it's upright position. He steps forward toward you and you have to restrain yourself from swooning.
"Mind if I take a look?"
You nod and motion grandly toward the raised hood, stepping out of the road and back toward your truck. Toward him.
He laughs at your exaggerated movement and meets you at the front bumper. He leans in, with a sparkling grin. Your breath catches in your throat and you falter. But he's immersed in the engine now, poking around and looking in and under.
"She's still warm—you haven't been marooned for long, huh?"
You shake your head and lean forward, pretending to be interested in what he's doing. You're really trying to get a better whiff of his cologne. Or is that just him?
"Just a few minutes, 15, maybe." A nervous giggle escapes your lips, and you are immediately embarrassed. But he doesn't seem to notice. "I was pretty glad to hear your bike, though. I forgot my phone at home, and it could be a long time before Charlie noticed I was late."
He looks up at you now, sideways through his lashes, his hands pause on whatever they're twisting at. "Charlie your boyfriend?"
"Oh, no!" You snicker, unable to stop the reaction. "Charlie's my dad."
You're unable to keep from adding: "And no boyfriend."
He smiles, nods. Turns back to the guts of your truck still smiling. You smile, too. He seems pleased that you're unattached. Mission accomplished, and you don't think it was too obnoxious.
He shakes his head, then. "I'm going to look underneath."
He shrugs out of his jacket and hands it to you before he drops to his knees. Then he flips over using the bumper to slow his fall and shimmies under the truck on his back. You watch his flat stomach wriggle back and forth under his tight tee-shirt as he scoots into position. You're practically salivating. You unconsciously bring the thick leather jacket up to your nose and take a deep breath of the musky, woodsy scent.
He tinkers around for a bit, and you watch the muscles in his thighs strain as he leans in, back and forth. You briefly consider crawling under the truck, too, and telling him you want to help. But you manage to control yourself.
"Ah, yep. I think I see your problem." He sits up, presses up to his feet and leans back under the hood for a short moment, then stands back. He pulls his keys out of his pocket and turns on an attached mini flashlight. Aiming the beam, he jiggles something metal and then nods. "See?"
You lean in at his cue, peering into the abyss. All you see is metal and wires. He holds the light steady and points with a tan finger.
"Right there. You have a bad connection." He stands up to his full height and you follow his beautiful face with your eyes. Then he winks and your heart stops."It's an easy fix."
You brush a stray piece of hair back from your face and he watches. He smiles slightly, then moves his hand toward your cheek. Your eyelids, suddenly very heavy, close softly. You're pretty sure he's moving too fast, but you don't care.
Instead of his lips, you feel a feather-soft touch on your cheek. He's patting. Wiping? You force open your eyes and find him staring, his full bottom lip caught gently between his front teeth.
"A little grease." He presses your face once more with his gentle hand and then drops his hand to his side. He smiles again, softly, the left side of his mouth quirked up.
Then he clears his throat, steps back and strides over to his motorcycle. He digs into the saddlebag and pulls out a pliers and a small roll of black electrical tape. He returns to the innards of the truck and fiddles around for several minutes. He futzes with the pliers and beads of sweat pop up on his forehead. He wipes them away with his upper arm, and you can't help but stare at the bulge of bicep under the short black sleeves. You hug his jacket a little tighter since he's off-limits.
"Damn." It's almost a whisper, but you hear it.
He looks up at you. "I don't have the right tools to strip the wire, and I can't get the wires to connect right without stripping the coating back a little."
He steps back, wrinkles up his nose and thinks for a minute. "I have the right tool in my shop. It's about fifteen minutes back that way." He motions in the direction he was headed.
You nod amenably, even though the idea of him driving away and leaving you there makes you nervous. And strangely sad. "I can wait here. I'll just hang out in the truck."
He nods, too. Then tips his head slightly to the side. "Unless..." His eyebrow quirks up and your heart stops. "...You want to come with me."
His lips glide slowly over his teeth until he's grinning a wolfish grin.
"I don't bite, I promise." His comment makes you mimic his expression, a little nervous about the motorcycle but thrilled with the idea of being tucked up against him. About not having to say goodbye so soon.
He takes his jacket back from you, but instead of sliding it over his broad shoulders as you expect, he steps behind you and tells you to put out your arms. "It gets chilly in the wind." You oblige him, and you're instantly enveloped in his warmth and scent. He comes around your front again and zips up the jacket. You're sure he can feel your pounding heart through the space between your heart and the baggy leather.
You're standing next to the bike, unsure of what to do next. He puts his helmet over your head and fastens the chin strap. He smiles and cocks his head, seemingly proud of his handiwork. Then he straddles the bike and turns slightly to pat the seat behind him. With a deep breath and another prayer for coordination, you swing your leg up and over, and you're on. You put your hands tentatively on his shoulders, but he tips his head back toward you and shakes it softly.
"You'll want to hang on tighter than that. These curves are killer."
No joke, you think, glad he can't read minds. Then you give in and wrap your arms around his torso. He starts up the bike and you find yourself clutching his washboard abs as he pulls out and onto the road. You accidentally bump your helmeted head into his head when he accelerates, and you feel him chuckle under your hands. You know your cheeks are burning, but you can't stop the face-aching grin from spreading ear-to-ear.
The road twists and turns under the bike while the butterflies in your stomach flap and flutter. You can't help but press closer to his warm body, perching your chin on his broad shoulder.
All too soon, you turn a corner and he slows down, navigating the bike down a gravel driveway toward a tiny red house. He passes the house and swings the bike in a wide arc in front of a faded red shed. He kicks down the stand, slides off in front of you and then offers you his hand. You giddily let him help you off of the bike and then hold perfectly still while he unclips the helmet and pulls it free. His eyes search yours, and he seems pleased with what he finds there.
All you want is for him to press his lips against yours, but he speaks instead: "My tools are in the garage—come on in if you'd like."
You know your hair is a mess, so you frantically finger comb through the strands while you follow him into the garage. You know your father would strangle you for letting a stranger take you somewhere, but you know this man means you no harm. A broken heart is the worst pain you'll experience at his hands, of that you are sure.
The inside of the shed is warm and cozy. The overhead lighting is dim, and it smells like fresh-cut grass and motor oil. A torn-up motorcycle and stray parts take up one corner, a red Volkswagen Rabbit sits against the back wall with its hood raised. Your new friend steps lightly over to a tall workbench and rifles through a drawer. He holds up a metal implement and grins. "Success!"
You smile and step toward him. You don't want to head back so soon. You hear yourself ask a question to stall: "It's nice in here—is all of this yours?"
He smiles wider, obviously proud of this space. "Yeah. I share the house with my dad, but the garage is all mine." He motions to the motorcycle and the car. "I always manage to have more projects going than I can handle. It seems like something needs work just about the time I fix something else. So I keep around more than I need so I always have something to drive."
You laugh. "Yeah, well, suddenly investing in a second vehicle doesn't seem like such a silly idea. My truck doesn't let me down often, but it sure is a pain when it does."
He grins. "Maybe you just need someone around who will keep her running for you."
The inference isn't hard to catch, and you feel your cheeks burning. He winks again and you think you just might die of joy.
"Thirsty? You're looking a little flushed." He laughs a soft, low chuckle and you are alternately embarrassed and thrilled.
"Well, it is getting a little warm in here..." You tip your head toward him, letting the playful banter and warmness of blossoming something-or-other wash over you.
He reaches into an unplugged mini-fridge and pulls out two cans of off-brand soda. He flips one toward you gently, and you continue to stun yourself by gracefully catching it with one hand. You crack open the top and take a long swig. It's a little warm, but nothing has never tasted so good. He opens a can for himself and the two of you lean against the countertop and enjoy the easy company.
He tells you about the little red car—his pride and joy—and explains that he saved the two motorcycles from the dump. He's two years out of high school, like you, and taking a few auto repair classes at a local technical college. He tells you that he wants to open his own garage someday, but for now, he's working in a friend's garage and fixing cars on the side to put himself through school. He listens intently while you tell him about driving back and forth to Port Angeles every day and finishing up your generals at the community college there while you save up for a move to a state school to complete your English degree. And maybe a Master's while you're at it.
You talk about your dads, growing up without your moms—his is dead, yours may as well be—and wishing for summer and the few sunny days it will bring. Then your soda cans are empty and you know it's time to go. Charlie might notice you're missing soon, and the idea of him going looking for you and finding your truck abandoned on a back road sounds like a bad way to start the evening.
So you walk out into the misty air. He slips into a long-sleeved flannel shirt from the garage, closes up the doors behind you, helps you shrug back into his oversized jacket, and snaps the helmet on your head. You both climb onto the bike and roar back out toward the main road. He pauses at a stop sign and turns back to look at you.
"Would you mind if we took a little detour? I want to show you something."
You can't bear the thought of the afternoon being over even though you know it has to end sometime, so you nod enthusiastically. He grins, leans his head forward to bump your helmet conspiratorially, and peels off in the wrong direction. You cuddle up closer, and he tucks his elbows to give your arms a squeeze around his torso.
Your heart hitches up into your throat, and you surrender to the moment.
At almost 20, you are strangely unacquainted with love. You think about the few boys in your past that you could maybe have called boyfriends—Mike, who wore you down until you acquiesced to a date with him, and then made you feel so guilty about how much he liked you and how little you liked him that you couldn't bear to stop letting him take you places. Tyler, whom you met when he lost control of his van and put a big dent in your truck the winter of your junior year of high school. That strange, listless, pale boy you followed around like a puppy for almost a year and whom you were certain you couldn't live without before he and his family moved away in the middle of the night suddenly and without explanation.
None of them were anything to brag about, and certainly none of them had ever made you feel for one second the way this dashing stranger has since the moment you saw him.
The motorcycle slowly decelerates, rousing you from your reverie and snapping you back to your perfect present. Through the slightly fogged helmet you see a road-side stand. He pulls the bike to a stop and helps you out of the helmet and off of the bike seat.
He reaches for your hand, and you gleefully surrender it. The camaraderie between you is comfortable and comforting. It's like you've known each other forever. He ducks through the low door frame and pulls you up to the wooden building. Inside, you are overwhelmed with the smells and sights. Packed into every square inch are fresh fruits and veggies, cans and jars of homemade goods, bags and bottles of who knows what.
He's pointing things out—his favorite local ginger beer, berries from just outside the reservation, local candies, and rhubarb that his mom used to make into pie. He opens a samples jar and pops a piece of melon into your mouth using a toothpick. Then he's urging you to taste pieces of homemade cookies and dips.
You're laughing now, drunk on the flavors and smells and his closeness. Your hand in his is perfection, and you feel three miles high when he glides his arm around your waist or across your shoulders at random intervals. You don't exactly know what love feels like, but you can't imagine anything sweeter than this.
He pulls you over to a display of honey sticks and picks out some for you to take with you—honey infused with lavender, citrus, berries. The light in his eyes is making you giggly and giddy, which seems to make him even more charming.
Clinging to his arm, you let him drag you back toward the motorcycle and you hang on for dear life as the bike lurches still farther in the opposite direction from your truck.
The miles speed by, and you're lost in the beautiful scenery and the warmth seeping from his back into your chest. The ocean appears like a mirage to your left, and the bike slows again. He parks it carefully against an outcropping and half-drags, half-carries you down the steep cliffside to the rocky beach below.
The wind is whipping your hair in tiny circles, and your hand is tightly gripped in his huge palm. His warmth spills over your hand, up your arm and directly into your heart.
"There." He points to a huge piece of driftwood midway between the water and where you stand. You squint into the distance. "That's my favorite place in the whole world."
He smiles down at you, and you understand that this is what he wanted to share with you. You are stunned into silence by the realization that he's feeling whatever it is you're feeling, too. He wants you to know him as badly as you want to know who he is. You nod, eyes slightly misty, and he flashes his perfect white teeth before wrapping his arm around your shoulders and pulling you tighter to him.
The driftwood is actually a huge tree, uprooted from somewhere and deposited on this lonely stretch of beach a long time ago. It has faded to a soft grey, with a wide top perfect for sitting. He chooses a place to perch, straddling the thick log, then pats the spot in front of him. You clamber up—a gentle boost from him gets you all the way there—and sit close enough to be close, but far enough away to not be awkward. He pulls the honey sticks from his pocket and hands you one. You hold it lamely in your hand, not sure what to do.
He waits until you're watching, then bites into the end of his honey stick, tearing off a bit of the wax tube and spitting it into the sand. Then he holds it up toward you as if to toast. You follow suit, biting into the soft wax and trying to spit out the small piece. Instead, it clings to your lower lip before it falls onto your jeans. He laughs, reaches for the tiny piece of shrapnel and flicks it off of your leg. You shrug and tap your honey stick against his. Then you follow his lead and bring the narrow tube to your lips. Sweet, lavendery goodness covers your tongue and you lick your lips, smacking away the sticky liquid.
He's watching you now. His eyes are dark, his breath speeds up. Before you know what's happening, he's leaning forward and pressing those perfect, plump lips against yours. The taste of honey and berries fills your senses, and you scoot an inch closer. His left hand finds the middle of your right thigh, and the heat from his hand seeps through your jeans. Your hand sneaks up the side of his face and over his ear, threading through the hair at the back of his head. You pull him closer to you, and his fingers tighten on your leg.
Your heart is singing, your body is on fire. This may be the greatest single moment of your entire life.
Then, as quickly as it started, it ends. He slides his hand down to your knee, squeezes once and lets go. He pulls back slowly, his tongue darting out to lick his lips. You watch his eyes as he inches away from you. He doesn't want this to be over any more than you do. You, too, lick the remnants of honey off of your lips. You can still taste him.
You can feel your cheeks burning now, and that brings a slight smile to his face. "I'm sorry—that wasn't very gentlemanly. We just met. I—I'm not usually so forward."
You shrug, hoping it looks cute and coy. "I'm not complaining."
He grins, reaches into his flannel pocket and pulls out another honey stick for the both of you. "Let's just pretend I was made insane by my jealousy that you got the lavender one."
You laugh then, and he joins in. You sit and talk for another hour—maybe more. Too long and never enough, in any case. He tells you that he comes out here to think. He describes the loneliness of living with a crippled father, of trying so hard to work and save and get ahead, only to struggle to pay the property taxes and groceries that his dad's disability checks won't cover. You listen as well as you can—you care, you really do—but mostly, you're just wishing he'd kiss you again.
Then, he stands. But instead of heading toward the road, he hops up onto the log and pulls you up next to him. With a grand flourish, he spins you toward him, his arm wrapping you close to his chest.
Miraculously, your feet cooperate as if you were born to dance, and the two of you sweep along the top of the washed-up tree, him leading, you following him like you'd follow him anywhere. Because you would. He dips you gently backward when you reach the end of the log, his arm in your back, pressing you tight to him; your hair cascading into the blank space between him and the sand. And you giggle with reckless abandon, secure in the knowledge that he'd never let you fall.
You lean upright again, and he's staring with a delicious smile on his face. You suddenly become shy and look down to where your torsos are pressed together. He clears his throat then, and almost whispers, "I like you happy. It suits you."
Almost accidentally, you rise up on tip-toe and kiss his cheek. Now it's his turn to blush, and that makes you happier than you've maybe ever been.
Then, too soon, he sighs a great sigh, steps off of the log and holds out his arms. You jump without reservation—like you've been doing all day—and let him catch you. He pauses for a moment, then steps back and extends his hand to you. The day is coming to a close, and your adventure is coming to an end. You entwine your fingers with his and vow to remember every moment of these last minutes.
His bike feels like home now, and your arms around his chest feel like forever. You bury your face against his back and hang on for dear life. The beach, the trees, the road whips by, and you're counting his heartbeats.
Your truck looms big in the distance. Even when it's betrayed you before, you've never been sorry to see it. Now, you hate it with an irrational hate. You know it will take you away from him all too soon.
The bike rolls to a stop and he puts down the kickstand one last time. He slides off of the seat, helps you to your feet. You unbuckle the helmet this time, pulling it off and shaking your hair out like a Bond girl. He grins and reaches out to touch the brown waves. You lower your eyelids and savor the moment.
The moment is over when he clears his throat and moves toward your truck. You follow, feeling like a lost puppy.
He reaches into the hood compartment, tinkers around for a few minutes. You're blindly staring at him, watching his hands move, the muscles in his forearms and upper arms shift and buckle. Then he's twisting some wires together, tearing a piece of the black electrical tape with his perfect white teeth.
"Well, that was an easy fix." He smiles at you, but his eyes look a little sadder than before.
"You did promise it would be fast." You smile, trying to be brave too, but you're failing more miserably than he is. You look down at the toes of your old sneakers, wishing you were as good at speaking as you are at writing. He clears his throat.
"I didn't catch your name." He extends his hand to you like you've just met, and you slip your palm against his.
"Bella. I'm Bella." You smile, watching his pupils dilate slightly. He's so beautiful.
"Yes, yes you are." He grins then, and your heart melts. "I'm Jake. Nice to meet you, Bella."
He's off, then, leaving you standing with a cold hand next to your truck. He slams the hood and tells you to start her up. "I want to make sure she sounds right."
You crawl into the cab, trying to decide how to ask him for his phone number. Or to marry you. The engine turns right over, and he—Jake—claps his hands once, loudly. His grin is so wide, you can't help but match it with one of your own. He pats the hood a few times and then comes over to your window. You roll down the glass and stare into his brown eyes.
You're begging yourself to ask for a phone number—any way to make sure you see him again—but the words won't come out of your mouth. Instead, you just smile.
He stands, one hand on the window ledge, one near the door handle. It moves for a brief moment, and you think—hope—he's going to open the door and pull you out. Keep you forever. But instead, he raises the hand from the window and captures the end of a stray curl. He tugs lightly, barely enough to straighten it, then looks you in the eyes.
"Nice meeting you, Bella. Drive safely."
You smile and thank him politely, but your heart is sinking. He's going to get away, and you're not stopping him.
He nods and backs away. Walks to his bike and lifts his helmet. He waves once, puts on the helmet and climbs back on the seat. You put your truck in gear and it glides forward and onto the road. Breathing deeply, you watch him in the rear view mirror as you drive away. He raises his hand once more when you're about 50 feet away. You wave out your open window, your head and heart still screaming for you to stop, back up, tell him how to find you again. Tell him you can't live without him.
Instead, you keep driving. All the way back to Forks.
Your hair is a mess from the open window, your face is a mess from the streaming tears. Your heart is a mess with the sureness that you've just driven away from the only man you'll ever love.
With a heavy soul and one final hiccupping sob, you crank up the window, open the door and slide out onto the driveway. Charlie is home, so you wipe away your tears and slam the truck door behind you.
Half way up the walk, you remember your wallet is still in the glove box. Turning around, you take a step back toward the truck.
Then you see it.
Scrawled in the dust of the driver's side door is a word. A name.
Jake
And a number.
530-2811
And now you're sure this is what love feels like.
. . . . .