Title: Forever Young
Characters: Emmett and Rosalie and . . .
Rating: M
Word Count: 9775
Summary: When Emmett and Rosalie take a break from the Cullens, they learn that there's more than one way to become immortal. AU (pre-Twilight), rated M (please read disclaimers) for the Love Lost contest.
Disclaimers: Stephenie Meyer owns Emmett and Rosalie; I'm just trying to fill in the blanks with a few ideas of my own. The sexuality expressed in this story may not appeal to all readers. It involves a married canon couple experimenting with an open marriage, which, in this story, means that each of them is free to enjoy other sexual partners of both genders, separately as well as together. Quotations about historical characters and the discussion about immortality were borrowed almost verbatim from various published sources. Dates of some actual events have been modified to fit into this story's time line.
To see all entries in the "Love Lost" Contest, please visit the author profile: www(dot)fanfiction(dot)net/u/2458839/Love_Lost_Contest
A/N: Thanks times infinity to starfish422 for pre-reading and supporting this story. Your generous and constructive feedback at literally the eleventh hour means more than words can say.
I have immortal longings in me.
—William Shakespeare
September 2004
"Emmett, take a look at this."
Esme has decided to redecorate the kitchen with a 1950s theme. Again. As if the first time around wasn't bad enough: The McCarthy witch hunts on TV . . . atomic bombs exploding in Nevada . . . Buddy Holly dying . . . and he wasn't the only one that I wouldn't have minded changing.
As a favor to Esme, Rosalie is surfing her favorite auction websites to see if she can find some authentic Fifties' memorabilia. Movie posters, original Kit-Kat clocks, red vinyl-covered diner booths, stuff like that.
Whatever floats your boat. With a few exceptions, I didn't think much of the Fifties and I don't particularly want to be reminded of them on a daily basis. But I never go into the kitchen anyway so I guess it doesn't really matter how it's decorated.
"Emmett?"
Rosalie's voice now has a peculiar tone that makes me put down the latest issue of Men's Health magazine. I've been laughing at the photos of the muscle-bound hunks and their insane fitness routines. Being an unchanging vampire has its advantages sometimes. No vomit-colored protein shakes, no daily bone-rattling runs. No lifting, no squatting. Just lots of smooth vampire muscle in all the right places.
And a steady diet of red corpuscles, of course.
It helps that I was a muscle-bound farm boy myself, back in 1935, when I met that bear. Fortunately, Rosalie came along and carried me all those miles back to Carlisle for his own unique "cure." She likes me just the way I am and, I'm happy to say, she doesn't seem to mind at all that I bat for both teams. Just thinking about some of the good times we've had together makes me harden . . .
I adjust myself and then chuckle when I hear Edward's exaggerated sigh as he comes down the stairs.
"Emmett!"
I am beginning to think that now might be a nice time for a little fun with Rosalie when her sharp voice brings me back to reality. I get up from the sofa and walk over to the computer, where one perfect blood-red nail is tapping impatiently on the screen.
"What's this, babe?" I ask as I lean over her, putting my left hand on the back of her chair and the other on the computer desk. I just can't resist sliding my thumb up her back, caressing her neck and then sliding it back down to the collar of her dress, where I start pushing and pulling the zipper tab down and up—a little farther down each time—until I am thwarted by the top of the chair.
She gives me a quick peck on the cheek before turning back to the screen, saying, "Stop that for a minute!"
I like the minute part.
"And look at this." Tap, tap, tap.
Instead, I'm looking down at her, down the front of her dress, imagining my fingers sliding into the lacy black bra I see there. Rosalie glances at me, laughs, and reaches up, taking me by the chin and forcing me to turn my head toward the computer screen.
It's an auction web page, with a large body of text and several small thumbnail photos. I skip the text for the moment and squint at the tiny photos. Rosalie clicks on one of the photos to enlarge it and a familiar image fills the screen.
"That's James!" I blurt out.
"No shit," she replies.
"What the fuck? What's he – "
"Listen to this." She interrupts me as she closes the photo and begins to read portions of the text. "'The lucky charm to which he attributed his success was a watch that he purchased in late 1951 in New York . . . .'"
"Are they still telling that lie?" I mutter in disbelief. The screen goes out of focus as a flame of jealous rage unexpectedly flares up in my gut and the fingers of my right hand begin to curl into an angry fist.
She moves her hand and slides her fingers down between mine. She pushes my fingers flat and kneads them for several seconds until they begin to relax. I start to feel distracted again until she holds up her hand.
"Wait, there's more."
I get that this is important so I try to pay attention.
"'Afraid his son would lose his lucky watch, his father gave him his own gold watch chain . . . .'"
"His father!" I explode. "The man who called him a pantywaist before he disowned him? That man never even gave him the time of day!"
"I know, Emmett . . . I know," Rosalie says quietly. "I was there too, remember?"
"Of course I remember, Rosie; how could I ever forget?" An avalanche of memories cascades through my mind. Almost 50 years have passed since I last saw James and yet his presence radiating from the computer screen is practically palpable. I can almost taste him again and I nearly groan from the heated longing that shoots through my skin.
Another exaggerated sigh and a softly muttered "Emmett!" from Edward, now seated at the piano, snaps me out of it.
"Sorry, Edward."
Together Rosalie and I gaze at the familiar face of the brooding young man. A round gold watch is clearly visible, hanging from a chain outside his pants pocket . . .
September 1952
Rosalie comes into the bathroom while I'm taking a shower. I like it when she does that; who wouldn't? But today she has other ideas.
"Emmett, it's time for my class. I'll meet you around 10 at the White Horse Tavern, okay? There are some people I want you to meet." She pulls back the shower curtain and looks at me appraisingly, watching me lather up my cock and balls.
She's dressed like a secretary for some reason, wearing a little hat, a white silk blouse that I like a lot under a rather plain gray jacket, and a matching skirt that's tight in all the right places.
"Mmm," she says appreciatively. "Wish I could stick around." She smirks as I work my hand up and down, getting harder by the second.
"Stop that!" she says with a laugh. "I have to go."
"Are you sure?" I grin. "Wouldn't you rather come instead?" I lean out of the shower and pucker up for a kiss.
No such luck.
"Oh no you don't," she growls playfully. "I can't miss this class." She moves away with vampire speed and a moment later I hear the door downstairs open and close again.
"Okay, babe, see you later," I manage to say before she goes out. I don't stop what I'm doing, though, and I replay the scene in my head, going for the happy ending: Rosalie, fully dressed, and still wearing that cute little hat—the one with the netting that just covers her eyes—stands in front of me in the hot shower with her skirt hiked up around her hips. My fingers rip away the silk panties before plunging deep inside her. Her legs come up to wrap around my body, the heels of her two-toned spectator pumps digging into my ass and her red fingernails scratching my back as I remove my fingers and put them into her mouth for her to suck on while I slam into her with my hard, wet cock . . . .
A few more strokes and I'm there. And then I have to wash all over again, laughing the whole time. To think that I even know the name of those silly shoes! They are sexy, though, in a prim, bombshell-hiding-behind-the-bifocals kind of way.
It was Rosalie's idea to come to Manhattan. We often make the trip down from our Rochester house, enjoying the night life for weeks at a time when Rochester gets to be too boring. When Carlisle announces that it's time to move on again, Rosalie makes her own announcement.
"We're going to New York for a while," she says one evening as the family sits together discussing the move. She and I had already talked about it and I am definitely on board with the idea. She decides that she wants to try out for Lee Strasberg's Actors Studio. Why not? It sure as hell beats going back to high school again.
Carlisle and Esme are supportive, and Edward seems relieved. I know it's not easy for him to be in a house full of fornicating vampires all the time, especially since Jasper and Alice joined us two years ago. I really think it's about time old Eddie finds someone for himself.
But that's his problem. I'm just grateful that he and Rosie never got along the way Carlisle intended when he changed her.
So off we go to New York. We buy an old brownstone townhouse right in the middle of Greenwich Village. Esme comes to visit for a while and helps us with the renovations and furnishings. Rosalie manages to get accepted into the acting class, which is pretty cool, I guess. Last year, she tells me, the guy accepted only two students out of the two thousand who applied.
Apparently Lee Strasberg and Stella Adler are a big deal in the acting world. She wants me to learn all about some guy named Stanislavsky and his whole Method acting thing, but I just enjoy watching her when she talks about the exercises they do in class. Knowing she has found something that makes her happy for a while makes me happy too. She even gets a small part as a nurse on a TV soap opera. We have a lot of fun at home too, when she wears her sexy nurse's uniform and we play doctor.
By the time I get to the bar, it's after ten and she's already there, chatting with two men who are about as tall as she is. The more muscular of the two has one arm loosely draped over his friend's shoulders. With the other arm, he is gesticulating wildly as he speaks and both Rosie and the friend are laughing. The laughing friend seems to be pretty dazzled by Rosalie and I half-expect to see his glasses fog up from the steamy looks he is giving her.
She introduces them as Lonnie and James. Lonnie, she tells me, is in town for the weekend, on a short break from filming in Hollywood. I recognize the guy. We saw him on Broadway a few years ago. He took a difficult role and made it completely his own. No one was surprised when he was asked to do it again in the movie version of the play.
James is a guy in her acting class. He's originally from Indiana and still has that "Gee whiz, I'm in New York!" look about him. But he sure stands his ground when it comes to arguing about the Method.
"Stella Adler taught me more in five minutes than I learned from any of my other teachers in five years," Lonnie proclaims.
"Lee Strasberg made the Actors Studio into the greatest school of the theater. It's the best thing that can happen to an actor," James responds.
This goes on for a while, but in the end, Lonnie is pretty gracious about it. He studied with both teachers and doesn't like it very much that they split up over creative differences. "I look at it this way," he says. "Stella stresses imagination and Lee stresses reality. I use Stella's imagination to get to Lee's reality. In the end, they're both talking about the same thing."
Rosalie looks admiringly at Lonnie as he diplomatically sums up the argument. It is obvious to me that she is quite smitten with him, in spite of the other guy's steamy looks. I, on the other hand, am more intrigued by the other guy, James. As the three of them continue chatting about upcoming roles, tryouts, classes and such, I have the perfect opportunity to look him over.
He isn't a tall man—he's maybe an inch or two shorter than Rosalie—but his pompadour of thick, light brown hair makes him look taller. He has intense blue eyes behind his glasses, and full lips. I wonder what it would be like to kiss him.
He's dressed very casually in rolled-up dungarees, brown loafers, and a tight white t-shirt under an open black leather jacket. He's muscular, but not as muscular as Lonnie. His body is leaner, with a wiry strength that looks like it could be dangerous if another human underestimates him.
When I glance up at his face again, he's looking right at me, with a slight smirk on his face. He knows I've been checking him out and he appears not to mind too much.
"Emmett?" Rosalie looks at me with quirked eyebrows and a question in her eyes. Lonnie is gulping down the rest of his drink and preparing to leave. Rosalie takes his arm and asks him if he wants some company. She's looking at me when she says it. I give her a little nod and turn to ask James to join me. I spot a table opening up and move quickly—but not too quickly—to grab it as Rosalie blows me a kiss before heading out the door with Lonnie.
Things changed a lot in our sex lives after Carlisle brought home the first of Dr. Kinsey's reports in 1948. Don't get me wrong; I had no complaints about the things Rosalie and I did in bed before then. However, these books taught us a lot about what we'd been missing. That's when I finally told Rosie about my hankering for a little guy-on-guy action. Dr. Kinsey said that it was much more common than anyone thought it was. She was a little shocked at first, I think, but by the time we got back to our room that night, she was really turned on by the idea. Since then, we've had a lot of fun with it.
A lot.
But Rochester is a pretty conservative town. We don't have much of an opportunity to play there and that's one of the reasons we decide to spend more time in Manhattan. During our previous visits we discovered that anything can happen here, and we want it to happen again.
After Rosalie and Lonnie leave the tavern, James and I sit down at the table I'd snagged. He hungrily wolfs down a burger, along with several more beers. He seems to accept my excuses for not eating, and he doesn't notice that I never drink from the beer in front of me.
I find out later that he is far more perceptive than I give him credit for.
By the time he finishes, it's after midnight and the tavern is packed with too many noisy people. I don't mind the smoky haze that hangs over the room—James is practically a chain smoker himself—but I'm definitely ready for some place quieter, with a lot more privacy. I know that Rosie will be going wherever Lonnie wants to go, or maybe checking into her favorite hotel if his accommodations are too grubby for her taste, so I invite James back to our place.
The night air is mild and we enjoy the short walk to West 4th Street. James is slightly drunk and wanders along the sidewalk, nearly stepping out in front of the traffic on Bleeker Street. That's when I grab him and keep my arm around him the rest of the way. He puts his arm around me too, and looks up at me with the sweetest smile.
"You're so big and strong," he says, shivering. "Why are you so cold?"
It's a reasonable question. After all, it's only September.
"It's my metabolism," I tell him. He blinks once and then bursts out laughing.
"Man, that's the craziest thing I ever heard!" he says. "Metabolism, huh?"
I'm a little confused by his response. I don't have much experience with people not believing what I say. By then we're walking up the steps to my door. Before I can put the key into the lock, he moves to stand with his back against the door, looking up at me.
He has pocketed his glasses and the desire I see on his face mirrors my own. I can feel the venom collecting in my mouth and swallow quickly. I'm really glad this guy isn't one of those singers I've encountered in the past because I would have sucked him dry in a heartbeat. Fortunately, I went upstate to hunt a few days ago. The thirst is still there—it's always there—but I've learned that I can usually keep a lid on it while I enjoy other pleasures. I lean down as he pulls the lapels of my jacket toward him.
Our first kiss is like lighting dry tinder on a windy day. It starts out tender but very quickly explodes into something else. I bask in the feel of those full lips and the warmth of his body as he presses against me. His scent is that of a human male in heat and I breathe it in, even as I plunder his mouth with my tongue.
After a moment of tongue wrestling, he pulls away, staring up at me and breathing heavily.
"Would you like to come in?" I ask. Now it's my turn to smirk. He nods. I finally get the right key into the lock.
I am definitely looking forward to unlocking a few more "doors" with my very own, very hard "key."
James has already left by the time Rosalie returns the next morning. Fortunately, it's a cloudy day, but there are no clouds in her beautiful face as she comes into the bedroom, where I'm waiting for her in bed, with a sheet modestly draped over my manhood.
She starts to take off her clothes to join me but I tell her to stop. I have already caught the scent of Lonnie on her skin and I want to enjoy this as much as possible.
She walks seductively over to the bed and slowly pulls off the sheet, which is already tenting with my erection. I watch as she inhales deeply, her eyes gleaming darkly as she, too, takes in my lover's scent.
I reach for her and run my fingers over the smooth skin inside her jacket. I already noticed that the white silk blouse she wore yesterday is missing, as is her bra. I circle her nipple before pinching it lightly and then withdraw my hand to slowly unbutton her jacket. For a moment, I resist the impulse to just rip it open because I know that she really likes this outfit.
But the impulse is very strong and I succumb before I get to the second button, growling as I hear the last two silver buttons bouncing off the floor across the room.
"Oh, Emmett," she says in a throaty whisper. She starts to take off her jacket but I stop her again. Instead, I reach down for the hem of her skirt and slowly push it up over her hips, just like I fantasized in the shower yesterday. The satin garter belt holds up her stockings but, as I had suspected from the potent scent of her sex, she's not wearing any panties.
I pull her toward me and nuzzle her stomach, before kissing and licking my way down to the promised land.
After a few minutes she pushes me back on the bed and climbs on top of me. I know she wants to return the favor but I'm too turned on to wait much longer. I grab her hips, position her directly over my cock, and plunge inside.
We both gasp. As she begins moving slowly, I can't help comparing the way she feels to the way I felt when I topped James last night. They are both so sexy and each one gives me so much pleasure.
"How was he?" she asks, almost as if she can read my mind. Which, of course, after 17 years together, she can. After all, this is not the first time we have played this little game.
"He took me all the way into his mouth," I say, "and he was so hot and tight when I fucked him." I nearly come right then as the combination of memories and sensations almost overwhelms me.
Rosalie moans as I pull her down hard onto my cock and push her up again with increasing speed. I feel her orgasm beginning to pulse around me and, with every stroke, I hear her short, harsh grunts as she comes.
"And Lonnie?" I ask through gritted teeth. I'm not going to last much longer.
"Oh, baby," she croons, shuddering as I continue to move beneath her. "He was so sweet. He made the sexiest noises when I put my fingers in his ass while he was coming." Which she does to me as she says this, and that's it for me. I come long and hard, deep inside her.
She collapses onto my chest, breathing heavily as our orgasms continue to pulsate between us. By then her little hat has fallen on the floor. Eventually, she sits up, her long, golden hair now a glorious halo around her beautiful head. I stroke her slowly as I gently take off her jacket and skirt, unfastening her stockings and rolling them down her long, lovely legs, pulling off those pumps and dropping everything on the floor next to the bed. I think about pumps . . . and pumping . . . and start to get hard again. I wrap my arms around her, roll over, and then we continue where we left off.
Rosie's fling with Lonnie is short but sweet. He goes back to Hollywood after a couple of days and we never see him in New York again.
Rosalie's fling with acting doesn't last much longer. For a couple of months, she continues going to classes and enjoys sleeping her way through most of the male cast of the soap opera while I savor long, lazy afternoons in bed with James when he's not working. He only has to look at me with those piercing blue eyes and I sometimes forget to move at human speed as I close the distance between us. Every time I kiss those lips, I want more, and he always willingly gives it. But it's not just his smoldering sexiness that has pulled me in; he is incredibly smart, and funny, too, and he has a way of looking at the world that just floors me every time he says something.
When the weather permits, we head out to discover more of Manhattan. On cloudy days, we go for long walks in Central Park. We visit the Empire State Building and the Statue of Liberty together. At night, the three of us listen to jazz in the Village and crooners at the Copa.
In October, James lands his first leading role in a Broadway play. I go to see it during the final dress rehearsal and the intensity of his acting is astonishing. He plays a 16-year-old boy who has been locked in an ice house all his life by his demented mother. The 21-year-old man I know just disappears, and a teenager filled with confusion and rage takes his place. I've never known anyone who has this kind of talent.
To celebrate, I take him shopping the next day and buy him a gold pocket watch and chain, and have his initials engraved on the cover. Unfortunately, the reviews are awful and the play closes after only three days, but he soon gets several offers for new roles and says that the watch brings him good luck.
I can tell that he has questions about me, and I'm surprised when he doesn't ask them. Rosie says that I must be giving off some sort of subconscious warning, letting him know that he shouldn't be too curious. I still worry sometimes that I might lose control with him so I try not to go too long between hunts. I plan my hunting trips for the days when he is rehearsing or in class. I'm sure he notices things and I wonder if he'll ever ask me any of those questions.
However, a few months after we arrive in New York, Rosalie leaves the Actors Studio in a huff after a new girl joins the class and Lee Strasberg is quoted in a newspaper as saying, "I have worked with hundreds of actors and actresses, and there are only two that stand out way above the rest. Number one is Marlon Brando and the second is Marilyn Monroe."
"He's talking about Lonnie!" she cries, flinging the newspaper up into the air. "And that blonde bimbo? How could Lee say something like that?"
"Aw, c'mon Rosie," I plead.
"Don't 'c'mon Rosie' me!" she shouts. "I'm better than she is and he knows it. But I don't wave my tits in his face like she does."
"Why not?" I ask. The confused expression on my face makes her burst out laughing and the crisis is over. Later—much, much later—she finally admits that Marilyn actually was pretty amazing. She tells me that even though students are usually forbidden to applaud each others' performances in class, one of Marilyn's scenes was so good that it resulted in spontaneous applause from the whole class.
I have to admit I'm a little disappointed that Rosie doesn't like her. It would have been interesting to see what kind of scene we might have had together. But Rosie doesn't usually swing that way so I just tuck that image away in the fantasy file for special occasions.
Anyway, it's clear to me that Rosie's fling with acting has run its course. And so, apparently, has my fling with James. Soon after Rosie tells me that she's had enough, he tells me that he's leaving for Indiana to visit his relatives and, before I know it, we are saying our good-byes and closing up the townhouse to rejoin the Cullens.
But not before James and I have a little chat about immortality.
"What's happening with you and James?" Rosalie asks me one night, not too long before her Marilyn misery. "You sure are seeing a lot of him."
The thing that's great about Rosalie is that she is completely transparent emotionally. So I understand immediately that what she's saying comes out of curiosity, not jealousy. Still, I find it a difficult question to answer.
"I don't know, Rosie. I mean, the guy's human, right? He's gonna get old someday and die."
"So why are you with him?"
"First of all, I love how he is in bed . . . ."
She smirks.
"Yeah, I know; that goes without saying," I continue. "But he's just so uninhibited sometimes, like he doesn't give a fuck what anyone thinks. He knows his own mind. And the way his mind works is fascinating to me, even though he can be a moody son of a bitch sometimes."
"Go on," she says.
"For example, we had this conversation the other night about immortality."
Her eyebrows arch in surprise but she says nothing.
"He starts talking about how a body can't live forever but a name can, like that Achilles guy in the Trojan War. I ask him what he thinks about supernatural stuff and he says he can't be sure but he thinks there might be immortal or invincible creatures around here somewhere."
Rosalie's response is something between a laugh and a snort. "What did you say to that?"
"I tell him he may be right about that. And then I ask him what he would do if someone offered him the opportunity to live forever."
"And?"
"And he laughs at me. Then he asks me if I'd ever heard of some guy named Wittgenstein, who died last year . . . Who the hell is Wittgenstein?"
"I have no idea."
"Really? I got the impression that maybe this is something you talk about in your acting classes."
"I must have been absent that day," she says, laughing. "Carlisle could probably tell us."
"Yeah, Carlisle probably knew the guy personally. Anyway, James thinks that we shouldn't be talking about living forever so much as living right now, in the moment. All that philosophy stuff makes my head spin, but James has a way of explaining things so that I can understand them."
"What did he say?"
"He makes it real simple. I love the way he puts it: 'Dream like you'll live forever, and live like you'll die today.'"
"That's not a bad idea . . . for a human."
"Yeah, then he laughs and says, 'The only thing wrong with immortality is that it tends to go on forever.' And then he wants to know why anyone should live forever when most people don't know what to do with themselves on a rainy day!"
"Truer words were never spoken," she says with a laugh.
"And then he says the oddest thing: 'The first condition of immortality is death.'"
"What?" Rosalie is taken aback by this. "Do you think he knows . . . or guesses . . . something about us?"
"No, because then he tells me, 'So that's how I know that immortality is not for me.' I ask him what he means by that."
"And?"
"And he says, 'Because, Emmett, I'm too young to die!'"
She laughs again. "My goodness, Emmett, are all of your conversations this deep?"
"Definitely not," I say, thinking about all the times we speak without words, letting our hands and our cocks do the talking for us. "Rosie, do you think he's trying to tell me something?"
She hesitates. "No-o-o," she finally says. "But it sounds like maybe there's something you want to tell him . . ."
"Yeah . . . maybe . . . Oh hell, I just wish we could keep him with us forever."
Rosie shakes her head, "Are you crazy? Can you imagine James and Edward together in the same house?"
I have to laugh at the image: moody James, with his wild outbursts and his bongo drums, running around the room, swinging his bullfighter's cape and shouting, "Ole!" And moody Edward, going bananas trying to block out even more sex in the house . . .
September 1955
It takes me a while—several years, in fact—but I eventually understand that Rosalie's acting ambitions weren't entirely extinguished by her frustrating experience in New York.
"Emmett, do you have any relatives in Hollywood?" Rosalie has somehow gotten her hands on that Hollywood newspaper, Variety, and has been thumbing absentmindedly through its pages for the past half hour.
I'm intrigued by her question. First, because I can hear in her voice a note of excitement that she's doing her best to control and I'm very curious about it.
Second, I haven't thought about my family for a very long time. What memories I have are hazy at best, like human memories usually are for most vampires. Finally, a name pops into my head.
"I think I have a cousin somewhere in California," I tell her. "His name is . . .Boyd? Lloyd? No, Floyd. Floyd McCarty."
I pause as I struggle to remember more.
"Oh yeah, his father and my father had a big argument about Grandpa McCarty's will."
I start laughing as it begins to come back to me. After all, what kind of inheritance did Grandpa McCarty have to offer besides a couple of acres and a flea-bitten mule?
"My father was the older brother so he won the argument. That's when Uncle Roy took his family out west. I think Roy got the better end of the deal," I add, vaguely recalling the stony farmland I once had to plow using that stubborn mule. "What's this all about?"
"Floyd McCarty is a Hollywood photographer. Look at these photos!" She allows her excitement to surface now as she folds open the newspaper and hands it to me.
I give the photos a quick glance and start to hand the paper back to her. Then I hear her laughter as I do a double take.
"It's James!" I gasp, taking in the handsome face, the familiar pompadour, the full, pouting lips . . . .
I am surprised by the wrenching feeling in my gut that grabs me when I see his face. He hasn't changed much—there are a few more lines in his brow and dark circles under his eyes—but he's still the beautiful boy I knew in New York. I feel myself harden as I recall what those lips used to do to me and I look up to find Rose watching me carefully. I see that she has one eyebrow lifted and a smug little smile on her face.
This love thing is funny, isn't it? Am I in love with James? I love Rosalie more than anyone or anything in the world. I love the idea of being with her forever and I can't believe how lucky I am that she feels the same way about me. But even though we've been together only 20 years—a mere flyspeck on the lifeline of a vampire—we've already learned that you can love more than one person at the same time. We know that there is nothing that would ever keep us apart and, at the same time, we understand very well that our hearts have room for others. Neither one of us feels threatened by these little flings.
So it doesn't strike me as odd when she is the one who suggests the trip to Hollywood. We both know how ephemeral our human loves are, how quickly people grow old. We try to celebrate the life that others choose to share with us, not waste time in mourning its brevity or loss. Rosalie has already done enough of that, and she still succumbs to the pull of depression from time to time. But she's also very generous—as only a queen can be when she is sure of the love of her most loyal subject—and now she encourages me to consider connecting with James again.
Our story is incomplete, I realize. He is never very far from my thoughts and I have followed his career with interest. I wonder if he ever thinks about me.
But I am also realistic. It has been three years since I last saw him and Carlisle is still worried that I might be too attached to this human. Rosalie and I sometimes talk about the big "what-if"—what if we could change James—but the whole idea of changing anyone is more or less frowned upon in the Cullen household. I seem to be the only one who is completely content with being a vampire.
I've been with a few other men since James but none can match his intensity, his magnetism. When Rosalie asks me to talk about him in bed, I still get incredibly turned on and it fuels some of our hottest sexy times together. Then she tells me her secret fantasy about having sex with James and me at the same time.
Now why didn't I think of that?
I haven't seen my cousin Floyd since we were both little country boys in Tennessee. Carlisle reassures me that even if my aunt and uncle were still living, it would be easy to convince all of them that I am Emmett McCarty, Junior. And he's right. Floyd, now middle aged, welcomes us with open arms and does everything he can to make our trip to Hollywood more exciting.
It's already exciting enough, being in sunny California. I know that we're not going to be able to stay for very long—it's way too sunny for us. We try working with some of the best make-up artists in Hollywood but even their best efforts don't dim the sparkle.
We see Lonnie—or rather, Marlon—very briefly on a sound stage one day but don't get a chance to talk to him. Rosalie is understandably disappointed, but manages to channel her disappointment into some amusing dalliances with several other up-and-coming young stars.
I, on the other hand, am thrilled when Floyd invites me to join him on a photo shoot with James. He's doing publicity shots for Rebel Without a Cause and he's dressed in a familiar costume: a white t-shirt under a black leather jacket, with dungarees and black leather boots completing the outfit—just like the clothes he was wearing on the night I met him in New York.
He doesn't know I'm in L.A.; this is the first chance I've had to see him. Floyd has just finished setting up a pose when I come into the studio. James is holding a burning cigarette in his right hand and is slouching uncomfortably against a wall.
No sooner has Floyd taken the first shot when James sees me and his eyes light up in recognition. "Emmett!" he yells. He drops the pose immediately, tosses the cigarette aside, and rushes over to greet me with a huge hug.
Floyd looks confused and, while James holds me like he'll never let go, I explain that we know each other from New York. It isn't easy because all I want to do is kiss James, not talk to my cousin!
Eventually, Floyd regains control of the photo shoot and James complies with his requests to change the angle of his head, the position of his arms, etc. But James never takes his eyes off me and I can't keep from grinning the entire time. Damn, he looks good enough to eat. So to speak.
And I guess I do too, because that's exactly what he does a short time later in the dressing room after Floyd has finally taken all the shots he wants. The minute we are inside, James locks the door and launches himself into my arms. I can't believe how much I have missed him and waste no more time before I start kissing him.
He frantically tugs at my belt buckle and unzips my pants, reaching inside to release my stiff cock through the opening in my boxers, his hot hands wrapped around my length, sliding up and down as I get harder and harder.
He urges me to sit in the one comfortable chair in the dressing room. Then he kneels on the floor between my legs and leans down to kiss and lick the tip of my cock. The sight of him as he takes me into his mouth is almost more than I can handle.
I don't last very long.
Later that evening Rosalie and I are getting ready to meet James for an evening on the town. I finally tell her about something that has been on my mind ever since we arrived in Hollywood.
"Rose, I'd like us to be together with James tonight." She turns to look at me with surprise—and interest.
"Well, I can't say I haven't thought about it," she said. "I didn't think sex with you could get any better, but every time we talk about it at home, it's like we're on fire."
"Then it's okay with you?" We've never done that before—three in a bed—because we usually go our separate ways when one of us meets someone. But tonight I want both of the people I love to love me and, if possible, each other.
"What does James have to say about this?" she asks in a low voice.
"Don't you remember how he was in New York that first night, back in '52?" I ask. "He obviously was interested in both of us. If Lonnie hadn't been there, we probably would have started out together."
"You have a point," she admits.
We join James at the Villa Capri, his favorite restaurant, and then head for a party given in his honor at the Chateau Marmont. James gets drunker than I've ever seen him before. It doesn't take long to understand why. While we're waiting for our driver, he makes his declaration as he stands between Rosalie and me.
"Emmett, you already know how much I love you."
"Hey, I love you too, man," I reply, putting my arm around him. "You know that, right?"
He nods and goes on. "And Rosalie, you are so beautiful, baby. How can I help it? I love you too."
Rosalie has a bemused smile on her face as he says this. Instead of replying, she turns toward him and puts her hands on his shoulders. I put an arm around him and pull him close so that he stands with his back to my chest.
Rosalie presses her body against his. "Well, James," she says in that sultry voice I love so much, "prove it." And then she kisses him.
I hear him gasp as her cold lips touch his warm ones, and I feel him strain against my arm as he tries to get closer to her. As they kiss, I see her eyebrow arch and I have the feeling that James is already beginning to prove it to her. No doubt he can also feel my erection growing behind him.
I can tell that none of us is eager to move apart when our limo finally arrives. With a laugh, Rosie is the first to step away. She reaches down and grabs James by his belt buckle, pulling him into the back seat with her. I can see his erection straining at the zipper of his pants and I quickly climb in behind them to give him some relief.
We're staying in a private bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel, only a few miles from here but no one seems to be in a hurry to leave the limo. I give the driver instructions to drive along the coast for a while before sliding the partition closed to shut out his curious eyes and ears and turning back to where the action is.
What a sight it is. Rosie is leaning back against the smooth leather seat, her eyes closed and her long neck arched gracefully as she enjoys the attention of James' lips and fingers. Her long legs are stretched out and her skirt is riding up above her knees.
James has already used his nimble fingers to slide the spaghetti straps off Rose's shoulders and tug the silky fabric down over her breasts, where he is now licking and sucking in adoration. She opens her eyes and looks at me with a sexy smile as she runs her fingers through his hair and pulls him closer. He doesn't object.
I nearly come just from watching them together. I sit on the jump seat facing them and run one hand up Rose's stocking-covered leg. With the other I stroke James' leg through his pants, pressing firmly around the zipper as I seek out his belt buckle. I grin as I am rewarded with a groan issuing from somewhere around Rosie's right nipple.
With dexterity borne of years of experience, I quickly unbuckle his belt, open the button on his pants, and push my hand inside the waistband. He shivers when I touch the tip of his cock through his boxers. I leave one hand there protectively while I reluctantly start to take the other from Rosie's thigh in order to unzip his pants. However, before I can do this, I feel her hand on mine, holding it in place while she smoothly opens the zipper herself.
I reach inside the waistband of his boxers and feel Rosie slide her fingers through the opening in the front. She pulls his cock out and continues to caress it while I stroke his balls. I lean down and lick the moisture from the tip and I feel both of them move in unison, hips rising together.
Rosie is signaling for me to give her a little manual stimulation too, and I willingly oblige, pushing aside her panties before dipping my fingers into her wetness and bringing them to my mouth with a groan. James opens his eyes and witnesses this with a gasp, pressing his hips against our hands, which are still stroking him.
Rose looks at me again as she brings his cock toward her opening. I hold her panties aside and rub her clit until James slides inside. I listen to his ecstatic moans as I struggle to control my own arousal while I unzip my pants, grab my cock, and rub his ass with it. I cover my fingers with the venom leaking from the tip and prepare him for me.
Once I'm deep inside him, I hold still for a moment, just reveling in how good it all feels. Then we begin to move together, with James setting the rhythm by alternating between pushing into Rosalie and then pulling out to back into me. I can feel James when he comes inside Rose and that sets me off too.
I feel a little selfish because I know that Rose is close but I can't wait. I also know that she won't really mind too much; she'll just make sure we give her everything she wants when we get back to the hotel.
And we do. All night long. I will never forget how hungry and open she is, welcoming us again and again. Together, she and I reach a place we have never experienced before, taking James right along with us.
A few hours before dawn I go out to hunt for a while, leaving the two of them alone together. After more sex with a human than I have ever had in one night, I realize that if I don't get a handle on my thirst right away, James will be at risk. I leave the two of them entwined together, with Rosalie softly caressing James as he sleeps. She has the look that I love to see when she has been totally satisfied in every possible way. James and I certainly have done our best to make her feel that way.
The sun is just coming up when I return, striding through the empty hotel lobby, anxious to rejoin my lovers. I come through the door of our suite and stop short. Rosalie has just gotten out of bed and is standing, naked, facing the window as the clouds part and the early morning sunlight streams in. With both hands she lifts her long blonde hair and piles it on top of her head before letting it go and stretching out her arms. I can see those cute dimples on her gorgeous ass. Her smooth, pale skin looks like diamonds in the sunlight.
She is perfection.
I hear a gasp and turn to see James standing in the bathroom door, dressed only in a bath towel, staring at Rosalie with an awestruck expression. She turns at the same time. A slow smile spreads across her face as she reaches for a sheet and wraps it around her body.
"Good morning, boys," she says, walking toward the bathroom. She stops to give James a deep, lingering kiss as she passes him in the doorway. My thoughts are in turmoil while she acts like nothing unusual has happened. It occurs to me that maybe she is doing this on purpose, knowing what James would see, and forcing me to make some decisions about our future. Maybe she's letting me know that what I want is all right with her. But that doesn't make any sense either. She never wants to change anyone. She still yearns too much for her own lost human life.
It's one of those rare moments when I wish I had Edward's talent for mind reading.
Rosalie has to leave for an appointment with Floyd at the studio. She wants him to do some head shots for her portfolio. James has not said anything since he saw her. We sit in the room after she leaves. He keeps shaking his head as if he's trying to clear his vision.
Finally, he begins to speak.
"Rosalie . . . ," he says, but then stops again.
"James, I know you have questions about me . . . about us."
"Yes . . . so many questions." He looks inquiringly at me. I nod, gesturing for him to continue. He takes a deep breath. "Does your skin look like hers in the sunlight too?"
I stand up, take off my shirt, walk to the window, and throw open the drapes. It was cloudy when Rosie left but now the sun is shining again. I close my eyes, open my arms, and turn slowly to face him. I hear the intake of breath as he catches sight of my skin, then feel his rough fingers caressing my chest. When I open my eyes, he has a look of wonder on his face.
"What . . . are you?" he stammers. There is no fear in his voice, only that sharp intellect, always seeking new experience.
To my complete surprise, the response does not terrify him; instead it raises a hundred more questions. I spend the rest of the day answering them, and asking a few of my own.
Is he okay with all this? He seems happy to finally learn the truth about me.
Can he keep a secret? I'm not so sure about this; he can be awfully unpredictable sometimes, especially when he's drinking.
And what about him? I finally get to ask the question that has been on my mind since our lazy days in New York together: Does he want this too?
"I don't know exactly how to do it," I tell him, "but we're not far from someone who knows what to do and has done it before. He's the one who saved me when that bear decided to have me for dinner."
"Yeah, man, that's a great story."
"What do you think? Would you ever be interested in changing?"
"It's a crazy thing you're offerin' me, Emmett. . . I'm still tryin' to wrap my head around everything you've been tellin' me today. . . You know I love you, man, but I love my life too. How can I do what you're askin' and still have all this?" he asks with a broad gesture that take in the hotel suite, the acting—everything he has achieved in such a short time. Everything he would have to give up.
"I know, James." I'm just as torn as he is. I want him to be with us but I also know that he is on the brink of stardom and he deserves to enjoy all of the human rewards that stardom can bring. I just wish that I could figure out some way to give him everything.
We don't decide anything that day. James is intrigued by my offer and promises to think about it. As we make love again that afternoon, I fantasize about what it would be like when James is one of us, how intense it would be when we can all love each other without holding anything back to protect his fragile human body. I wonder if the rest of the family will accept him. Carlisle never changed anyone unless they were dying. Will we have to leave the family if we change someone because we love him too much to let him go?
The end of September is balmy in California and James is enjoying a brief break, now that he has finished filming in Texas. He has a sleek new Porsche and he can't wait to get back out on the racing circuit to test it.
"Do you want to ride with me up to Salinas today, Emmett?"
"No, I think I'll drive up with Rosalie. She's been wanting to see you race."
"It's about time! Well, maybe I'll take Rolf with me instead. He's such a good mechanic; he can help me if there are any problems with the Porsche."
"That sounds like a good idea. We'll follow behind you and pick up the pieces," I say jokingly.
James laughs, but then his face becomes quite sober. "Hey, Emmett, I've been thinkin' about what you asked me." He catches the eager look on my face and laughs again. "You're offering me a tremendous gift, man . . . which reminds me: can you give the watch to Tillie before you leave for Salinas?" He takes the watch and chain out of his pocket and hands it to me.
I sometimes have a hard time keeping up with his quick mind but this is too much. "Huh?" is all I can manage.
He reads the confusion on my face and laughs again. "Sorry, man. Talkin' about one gift makes me think about your very first gift to me. It needs to be cleaned and Tillie says she can get it done while I'm out of town." Tillie Starriet is his hairdresser, and she often runs errands for him in her spare time.
"What? You're giving your lucky watch to a mere mortal?" I tease. "What are you going to do without it?"
"I don't know, man," he says, shaking his head. "It's the first time I've been without it since you gave it to me in New York."
"Aw, don't worry about it. Consider it done."
"Emmett, up ahead . . . what's going on?" Rosalie asks as we speed along the two-lane blacktop. The sign for Cholame has just flashed by and we still have about a hundred miles to go before we get to Salinas. A flat tire really slowed us down and we're trying to make up for lost time.
But the intersection ahead of us is blocked with cars. I can see the flashing lights of one, or maybe two, ambulances. We slow, then stop. No one is going anywhere, except one of the ambulances. Its siren wails as it passes us, going back the way we came.
Rosalie spots it first: the twisted wreckage of the Porsche in a ditch on the side of the road. The medics are moving someone from the flattened grass onto a stretcher. Only a blond head is visible.
"Emmett, it's Rolf." I jump from the car and almost forget to move at human speed as I rush to the Porsche, searching frantically for James. The car is empty now, but the driver's seat is bloodstained and torn.
I run to the remaining ambulance and look inside. Rolf is laying on a stretcher with his eyes closed. On one of the seats a young man is holding his head and weeping. It isn't James. Later I learn that it was Donald Turnupseed, the driver of the other car. I'm feeling more frantic by the second. I grab one of the medics by the shoulders, and practically shout at him. "Where is James?"
He tries to pull away from me but I won't let go. "Where is he?"
He points at the southbound road where the first ambulance has gone. "Dead . . . a broken neck. It was awful. I ain't never seen anything like it. His head was practically cut off his body."
I stare at him in shock.
Dead?
James is dead?
No no no no no . . .
The medic stumbles as I let go of him. I try to get a grip on myself before I destroy something. Or someone. The medic is wise enough to move away quickly, climbing into the back of the ambulance and pulling the door closed behind him. Through a haze of grief I hear the siren begin its mournful sound as the ambulance drives away.
Apparently, the media vultures have been listening to their police radios for they have already begun to arrive, carrying their cameras and shoving each other to get the best shot of the Death Car, as they're calling it, before it's towed away. I feel my rage and grief narrow to a single point focused solely on those gossip-mongering carrion who are taking delight in the death of my beloved James. I know that I am at risk of giving myself over completely to blood lust and rage as I envision smashing their cameras into pieces before I pull each of them apart, limb from limb.
Rosalie comes up behind me and wraps her arms around me, leaning her head on my back. "I'm so sorry, Emmett. I loved him too." I reach up and hang onto her hands for dear life. Those cretins will never know how close they have come to being ripped apart and fed to the real vultures that now circle lazily overhead.
Later, we learn that Alice has been frantically trying to reach us all day, having missed us by mere minutes at the hotel. We can't even attend the funeral in Indiana, due to the unusually sunny weather there. By then, Floyd has left on another assignment and Rosie's interest in a movie career has waned. There's nothing left for us in Hollywood.
September 2004
September 30th has been a day of mourning for me for a long time now, and today is no different, except for the fact that the watch was delivered this morning. I'm holding it now, for the first time in almost 50 years, looking at those initials and still missing the man who once insisted on wearing it as part of his costume in East of Eden.
It looks beat up and worn, with scratches on the cover and on the glass crystal inside. It's set for 5:43—the exact time that the crash took place. I look over the provenance list; other than Tillie Starriett's name, I don't recognize anyone who has held this precious watch in their hands. And none of them knows the true story.
I sit in our bedroom, holding the watch. It's dwarfed by the size of my huge hands. I turn it over, again and again, looking for some trace of him embedded in the initials or mirrored in the face of the watch, but I see nothing. My vision blurs and my eyes hurt from an accumulation of venom. I realize that if I could shed tears, I would be weeping now.
Rosalie is downstairs surfing the Internet again today, looking for parts for one of the cars. Or so I thought, until I hear her call my name in a low voice. I put the watch in my pocket and go down to join her.
There on the screen is Floyd's favorite photo. You know the one—the studio used it for the Rebel Without a Cause poster: James is slouched against a wall, wearing that black leather jacket, left hand at his hip, right arm bent at the elbow, holding a lit cigarette in such a way that it looks like a gang sign, his blue eyes squinting from the smoke, his hair slicked back: the epitome of cool. He's looking up intently at something slightly to his right.
I remember it perfectly: he was looking at me.
I sigh.
"Sometimes I wonder what would have happened," Rosalie says.
"Yeah, me too."
He was 24 years old and was in the process of transforming his profession. If I'd had my way, he would have been 24 forever.
As it turned out, he is.
A/N: On August 1, theraingirl posted a video clip on ADF in which the Twilight cast was asked who they would like to do a gay role with. Kellan's reply ("James Dean") was the stimulus for this story, which borrows liberally from Dean's life. He really did have a gold watch (you can see it in the film East of Eden); it recently was up for auction. There really was a man named Floyd McCarty who took many of the iconic photos of Dean for Rebel Without a Cause and Giant. Rolf Wutherich, a German mechanic, was in the Porsche with James when the collision occurred. And a woman named Tillie Starriett really was in possession of his lucky watch the day he died.