A/N: Hiii All - if you are here, it means you're - hopefully - about to read the first chapter of a little story that got stuck in my brain and had to find its way out. I really, really hope you'll like it!
Disclaimer: None of the recognizable characters are mine, I only own the plot.
Chapter 001 – The Huntress
Edward
It is 12:45, exactly, when I see her for the first time. Radio plays "Thank God it's Christmas" by Queen, even though it's only 1st of December and there's no snow in the forecast for another week or so. The sun shines through the dirty window, making her long brown hair shine like copper and I am certain she is not real.
This isn't my usual place. In fact, I've always preferred the comforting familiarity of Starbucks just a block away, but they hired a new barista, an utterly fucking crazy girl, who happens to be my fan. Jessica, or something like that. It was amusing for the first few days, but then I grew tired – understandably - of her constant nagging and ostentatious, clumsy flirting. As if I could fall for a barista! (Seems pretty damn ironic, now, I know) I don't like to write at home, though. For some reason I always end up watching porn or mindlessly swiping through Instagram stories, so I decided to try out this little coffee place that I saw so many times on my way to Starbucks.
Cinnamon Café.
I didn't actually plan on staying here, I was put off the moment I walked in: everything looked cheap and I could bet the tables would be sticky from the dirt (they are not). I was about to turn on my heel and leave, when my agent called me. I knew this wouldn't be an easy conversation, so I sat down at the nearest table.
"How's my lucky boy?!" he roared into the phone, which immediately set me off. I hated when he did that. First of all, I wasn't his. The fact that I was signed into the publishing house he worked in, didn't automatically make me his property. Yet, he always treated me like one. Why did I always let it slide? I wouldn't be able to tell. Or, okay, perhaps I would, but I'd rather not analyse it. He also referred to me as "the lucky boy", which, for me, was even worse than being owned by him.
Sure, I was quite young to be a bestselling author, but, hell, I did not own it to luck. I wrote that book! However, I must admit, I have had more than a fair share of luck so far. Certain things had been always happening as I wished, somehow. Call it luck, serendipity, or divine intervention, or whatever, it weighed heavily on my life. My editor does not need to know about it, though.
I listened to him yap about the approaching deadline for my new project – deadline, which I already knew I would miss. Let's just say I've been all caught up and up to date with all the porn and Instagram had no surprises for me anymore. Or the other way around, maybe. I let him go on about how great this new book will be and I even expressed half-assed enthusiasm over the book tour he had already started planning. Optimism bordering on naïveté, if you ask me, but no one asked me, so I just played along. I had a strong suspicion he was checking on me and, I had to give it to him, he had good reasons to do so. Like I said, I was going to miss my deadline spectacularly.
When he finished, I felt angry and drained, so I decided to stay in this crappy, cheap café, where every single piece of furniture looked like it was retrieved from a different garage sale. I wanted to write. The truth is, I always want to write. I get easily distracted, that's all. Also, the closer to the deadline, the better the quality of my work is. I prefer to walk on a thin ice, I guess. I probably should see a therapist about it.
Cinnamon Café doesn't operate like Starbucks; you don't queue up to get your order. Which is good, on one hand. I don't have to tell anyone my name, although I always introduce myself as Emmett anyway and then relish in spelling mistakes. It is awfully satisfying, even if also petty, to know my jerk of a brother had to live with people forever misspelling his name. What I did have to do, though, was to look through the menu, which was a worn-out, un-laminated piece of cardboard, sticky and covered in stains. It was off-putting to say the least. Still, I did not let myself be completely discouraged. I had my Mac, there was just enough sunshine outside to keep me somewhat motivated, all I needed was a coffee and a good playlist.
So, 12:45. I am about to wave for a waitress, when I see her. Thank God it's Christmas. Sunshine on her hair and all that. My mind goes blank and I just sit there staring at her with my mouth hanging open. I must look like an absolute idiot, but I don't really care.
She is all smiles, talking to an elderly customer and I instantly envy him. Her face is porcelain-white, yet dewy in a healthy way and her smile, the smile she offers to the old guy, (he definitely does not deserve it), is the most perfect of all smiles I've ever seen. I write for a living (surely writing one book and a couple of articles qualifies me to say that), but at this moment I can find no words that would do it justice. Her long brown hair falls loosely onto her shoulders. Normally, I would walk out of a place where the staff serving food doesn't wear hairnets, but today I don't mind at all. Hell, I want her to serve my every meal starting now. She is dressed in a pink dress, retro-inspired; simple, yet incredibly sexy. I watch transfixed as she leans towards the old guy and whispers something, which makes them both laugh as if they were good friends.
I cannot say what it is about her exactly, I've seen plenty of beautiful girls in my life, but I feel light-headed when I look at her. Kind of like when I did my first molly. Except happier.
And then, with no warning at all (although, what kind of warning did I expect?), she looks right at me and I know I am doomed. It's clear as a day, her dark eyes will be the end of me.
She pats the old fella on his shoulder and walks over to my table. Up close I can see that her eyes are the colour of chocolate, warm and rich. They also seem to pierce right through me, in a way that's not entirely pleasant.
"What can I get you, sir?" she asks with a smile that means nothing, unlike the one she gave to the old man (who is he, anyway?). it's the kind of smile anyone in customer service learns early on, it doesn't reach their eyes, but they still seem polite and eager.
Well, I am eager to undress her.
"What do you recommend?" I ask, knowing very well how obnoxious I sound. Just another dumb man hitting on a pretty waitress. She must be sick of that. I cannot help myself, though. It's not like I'm trying.
"Our special from today's lunch menu is excellent," she recites, the professional smile still plastered onto her lips. She goes on to tell me about some squash soup or something equally boring, but I cannot focus on the words, because I am consumed by the sound of her voice. It's like that perfect song I heard once in a pub, but was too drunk to find Shazam on my phone and all I've ever have will be a surprisingly clear memory of the most amazing guitar outro ever.
"Gosh, this sounds yummy!" I say when she's done with today's specials, and, even though I am painfully aware I am making a fool of myself, I cannot stop, "How about you choose for me?" I want to call her by her name, but she doesn't have a plaque with her name. Instead, the golden plaque she's got pinned to her chest says "Trainee".
If she's just a trainee, I think, how come she's already such good friends with the old dude?
She raises an eyebrow at me and, for a second, her waitress-y smile falters, but she quickly composes herself and says: "If you don't suffer from any allergies, I am sure you'll just love our Kind Kong Monster Burger with a side of delicious Deep Fried Dill Pickles. How does that sound, sir?"
"Sounds swell!" I say, already feeling like throwing up. Deep Fried Dill Pickles? Really?! But I know I'd gladly eat arsenic if served by her. Also, I used the word "swell" – I'm beyond hope.
"Perfect!" her smile widens and I can see there is a spark of amusement in her pretty eyes. Not surprising, given how flat out ridiculous I act.
When she's just about to leave my table, I say, desperate for her to stay with me just a bit longer, "Could I please also have a coffee with that, miss…?" I let my voice hang in an unsaid question; I need to know her name.
"Not a problem, sir," she answers, ignoring my hint for her to introduce herself. "Will that be black or white?"
"White, please," I say. I wince when I add, "With soya milk, if possible." God, I sound like such a hipster. She must think so, too, coz she smirks when she says "Right away, sir."
I watch her head towards the kitchen and I feel just like that first molly I ever took stopped working. Basically, I feel like crap. And, just like with the pills, I already know I want more. And I will get more. Even if I have to wait until her shift ends and then stalk her home.
Bella
My God, he is such a cliché. Cute, but cliché nonetheless.
I watch him watching me throughout the rest of my shift. He barely tried the Monster Burger – what a waste; or the Deep Fried Pickles (which I can understand, they're kind of gross), but he's drank four coffees and two beers.
He's easy on the eye. His jawline is magnificent, and I like the way his messy hair looks auburn in the sun. I don't know why, but he makes me think of a peaceful summer day. It's not the most logical feeling, I admit, given my intentions. It's comforting, though.
From the very first moment, I can sense I make him nervous, and, I must admit, I enjoy that, so I make sure I am the one bringing him every next drink.
The afternoon is quite dead. With the sunny weather outside, customers are not likely to sit in a cluttered diner that pretends to be a coffee shop, so I don't have much to do. I am grateful for that; it was painful enough to learn the specials by heart. Reciting them to people that are always fussy or rude, or both, is more than I can handle today.
I have wasted a lot of time observing his habits and learning his routine, and I am exhausted by days of cloaking myself in spells that would make me entirely forgettable. Every evening when I knew he wouldn't do anything significant, I tried to cleanse myself by burning sage and drinking the potions that Aro had personally made for me, but it didn't amount to much, so, when that girl in Starbucks started obsessing over my object to the point where he decided to change his place of procrastination, I was beyond relieved.
It is such a strange feeling, to be finally seen by him. I suppose, I should have prepared myself better for this, it's my goddamned job after all. I pride myself in being a control freak, and, while some might laugh at my fastidiousness, I think it's what kept me alive. Still, I am quite on the edge all day. Perhaps I prefer procrastinating, too.
I know, of course it is pointless to put off the inevitable. I've done that a lot in my life and it got me nowhere, really. I need to learn my lesson, finally, and just go through with it. Otherwise, what was the point of it all? All the lies and sacrifices, all the disgusting things I've done.
This is really not the time to dwell on past, I reprimand myself with no real conviction.
I did not expect him to be as intoxicated as he is. I thought I'd need to add something to his food, or drinks, I even had the right powder in the pocket of my ugly pink dress, but soon enough I realise he doesn't need any enchantment. He has done all the work for me.
I should be grateful for that, too. The ingredients of the powder I made are not cheap, I shall keep them for more desperate times.
He is a willing prey.
In fact, he is so willing that he waits for me at the back of the café when my shift is over. Naturally, I am not surprised in the slightest. He left minutes before the closing time, abruptly, almost as if he didn't want to draw attention to himself.
He also left a hefty tip on the table. Which I took.
I help cleaning up the tables, as every evening, since I got myself hired in this place, then I change into my clothes. Every time I get to take off this stupid pink – pink! – dress I feel immensely happy. It was ugly and made me feel like a sex object. I think that, perhaps, this is exactly the purpose the dress is designed to serve.
I worked too many of lousy jobs to count, waitressing isn't anywhere near the worst I had, but I feel way better in my jeans and a black sweater. I do my hair in a tight knot that I secure with a pencil. It doesn't look great; I scowl at my reflection. It crosses my mind that I should have chosen something sexier, but then I think back to his stupefied smile every time I approached his table and I know it doesn't matter what I wear. He's mentally undressing me already anyway.
I make certain no one else leaves through the back door. Last thing I need are accidental witnesses. Besides, as much as I hate to admit it, I like these people. Betty the waitress, Marlene the cook, and even the manager is kind, so it's better to keep them safely unaware. Ignorance is bliss that everyone takes for granted until it's too late.
I sure did.
When I walk into the alleyway behind the Cinnamon Café, he's there. Of course. He's leaning against the wall in a studiously nonchalant pose. I force a smile. I never understood men who act this way. Do they think we're completely stupid? Or is their sense of entitlement this bad? They think they're charming in their effort to get to know the girl, while, in fact they're creepy and stalkish.
It doesn't matter, though.
This particular creep is my willing prey.
Of course, there is a small chance that I was wrong about him. That he's not the one I've been looking for and that all I've done was to waste time. Time I do not have. I get tense at the very thought. But there is no other way to find out than to go through with it.
"Hi," I say as I approach him. I'm not smiling, I don't want him to think I'm too willing, but I don't want him to feel discouraged, either. He looks stunned. Perhaps he expected an outburst of anger, perhaps he knows how wrong is what he is doing here. What he's hoping will happen.
"I'm sorry." He says, "I know it's not how it should go, but I just couldn't get myself to act bravely in there." He sounds genuine and I feel a ping of regret. What I'm doing is worse than what he's doing. He's just a guy smitten and acting like an idiot.
"But here, in a dark alley, with no one around, you're all brave." I say, spreading my arms as if to show how empty the place is. He winces and runs his hand through his hair. I can see why he's such a sensation, he has the kind of effortless charm that is impossible to learn. Young, hot and talented. Oh, and also rich. If only he was, let's say an actor, instead of a writer, we'd have a dozen paparazzi with us now.
Perhaps I should thank the gods he is a writer not a performer.
"I just wanted to know your name," he says, "Please don't take it the wrong way."
I walk a little closer to him. He looks uncomfortable – not how a potential rapist would feel, I guess. In the street lamp light his green eyes shine eerily. Or, maybe it's not the street lamp that brings out this uncanny light, perhaps I was right about him.
I breathe in; he smells of some heavy perfume and coffee. I wish I could just walk away and leave him be, even if he deserves a slap for his creepy behaviour. Then I think of all the sacrifices I've made so far. And of Jacob. And it becomes clear – crystal clear – that there is no turning back.
"My name is Bella," I say and I reach out to touch his cheek. He freezes, shocked by this gesture. "And I am a huntress."
"What does this make me, a prey?" he smiles weakly.
"That is to be revealed, Mr. Cullen." I say and I reach for the pencil holding my hair and stab him deep into his shoulder.
His eyes go wide in shock – and pain. And disappointment.
So do mine. Blood that gushes from his would is jet-black.
A/N: Please, please hit the review button and let me know your thoughts! And thank you for reading this!
Stay tuned for more xx