+-+-+
Ruby
+-+-+

Edward's hair is a torrent of flames as he moves through his large living room, shoulders high and tense as he emits a mutely magnificent rage. It is him at his second-most beautiful—trumped only by the passion he exudes when we're physically connected, of course. Not to say that we have been in the last month. It's not that I use sex to punish him, but... our relationship is complicated. If it could be called a relationship at all.

His fists curl and his footsteps are heavy, nearly thunderous.

He loses his easy grace when he's angry like this. Being so commonly fluid in his movements and actions, it's fascinating to see—the loss of a step, the faltering of a breath, the skip of his eyes as he realizes that a wayward shoe has tripped him up in the middle of his million-dollar upper-east side condo. It's like watching a tourist in a foreign country when his expression grows baffled, uncertain as he struggles to make sense of a simple missed footfall. He stares at the shoe, suddenly still as his bare back ripples in indignation. I can see the sinewy expanse between his shoulder blades rise and fall as I dart my eyes between the back of his head and the offending boot.

I want to tell him that it's okay, I trip all the time, usually on nothing but air. Instead, I sit silently as he slowly bends to pick it up, inspecting it with an affronted expression, his jaw rigid and taut as his teeth clench.

Then, with one flick of his wrist, he chucks it out the open window.

He turns to me, impossibly more enraged as he begins, "Why are you doing this to me?"

I laugh because I can't help it. It's so typical of Edward to ask a question like that. After all, the world does revolve around him in a steady, melodic orbit.

At the sound of my cold chuckle, he takes a quick step forward, muscles flexing as he spits, "Fucking laughing at me? That's rich. Fucking rich."

Well, he hasn't really raised his voice.

Yet.

"I'll be sure to tell my dad to plan his next gun shot wound around your performance schedule," I respond dryly, wholly incapable of biting back my sarcasm and… hurt.

I am hurt.

Truth be told, I expected this reaction from him. He's grown so accustomed to people making him comfortable, has been conditioned to believe that his dreams and goals are the pinnacle of the universe, to never be meddled with. Everyone is expected to accommodate his every need in relation to his talents. His parents have coddled and accepted his outrageous temper tantrums since he was nothing but a child, and now, I reap the consequences.

Thank you, Esme.

Of course, only I can be blamed for putting up with it.

"I ask one thing of you. Just one thing. Shit, it's not really much is it? Is it?" he asks belligerently while resuming his stomping across the carpet. His hands go to his hair and begin pulling and yanking and his nose wrinkles and his jaw hardens and I know… it won't be long before the yelling begins. "I'm fucked. You fucked me, you just…" And then he stops and whirls on me and his face is red and this is it.

My back stiffens in anticipation, blood thrumming through my veins and tapping at my skin like he's trapped a hummingbird beneath my flesh.

The way in which he bends his body to hurl the scream at my face is a distorted, malicious thing. His stomach clenches to project it outward and his eyes are fixed to mine, completely unabashed as they dance and smolder in fury. He explodes, jamming his index finger to his chest, "You fucked me!"

I sigh and retrieve my magazine from his leather cushion, flipping open to some random article that I'm only pretending to be absorbed in. I've grown proficient at hiding the tremors in my hands. "I could be fucking you right now if you weren't being such an epic dickhead," I retort, feigning flippancy.

Inside, my chest burns, and I ignore it.

I consider myself an expert in these tantrums. I know that being hurt and offended and teary-eyed is the wrong way to react. It's much like giving a child attention when they scream for it, kicking their feet against the floor and shrieking as if physically injured when you know damn well they aren't. Unacceptable. It's better to ignore it for the time being, to remain cool-headed and let him vent it out, throw insults at me, scream to his throat's malcontent, until the flame in his eyes flickers and dulls and he realizes just how much of an ass he's being.

Later, he'll be groveling and apologizing and burying his head in my stomach and promising that he only acts this way because he needs me so badly. He'll tell me to save myself, to leave him behind and find someone who can treat me the way I deserve to be treated. He'll tell me to finally jump off the fence that divides love and hate and loathe him for what he can't be.

I won't put out for at least two months.

We have a pattern, see.

"Ha-fucking-ha, Bella. Ha ha! Ha ha! Bella made a joke! Ha ha!" He is screaming to no one in particular and I can see his roadblock. He's unable to argue his point any further in that one moment and it shows in the darkening of his eyes, the click of his teeth.

Hence, I'm completely unsurprised to hear the flat thudding of knuckles against skull. I inwardly wince but remain composed as I flip another page. My eyes only dart to him once to catch the blur of his fist contacting with his flushed temple.

This is one of his red tantrums, as I often color code them in my memory. Else, it would be impossible to keep track.

He won't cause physical harm to anything but himself when in his red mood. The first time I witnessed him punching himself in the head, I was terrified and confused and worried. The fifth time, I nearly laughed. The twentieth time I witnessed it, I considered giving him a helmet for Christmas.

Now, I just wait it out and stay until I'm certain he hasn't knocked himself into unconsciousness—which only happened that one time last year, but is still entirely possible.

His favorite ass to kick has always been his own.

He's not always this bad. Truthfully, when he isn't in a mood, he's the most charming, perfect, sweetest, most caring and compassionate person I know. Anger simply invades him like a sickness, poisoning his words and actions and cutting stares. I take the bad because the good is worth it and I'm acclimated enough to know that he doesn't really mean to treat me like this.

"Get out," he eventually orders, panting in exertion and red as he towers over me. His forehead and temples are bearing the marks of his knuckles—little raised bumps on pale skin.

I glance up at him through my lashes and close my magazine, locking gazes with his furious eyes as I lift myself. I flatten my palm to his bare and fevered chest, ignoring his flinch as he stares down at me with disgust.

"You fucked me," he repeats in a hiss, shoving his finger at the door.

I let my hand inch over his hot flesh, dragging it down until I reach his belt loop. And then I yank him to me, putting my lips to the patch of throat I can reach without looking up. "I forgive you for acting like this, and… I love you," I promise against his skin and feel his abdomen loosen just barely.

He will not say it back, and we both know it.

He's looking away, eyes down as he visibly struggles to maintain his anger at my hasty departure. I can discern the dark twinge of shame in his hard frown—whether at his behavior, or at my declaration, I can't say. But his red fury has mellowed to a fierce gold, and I know that it's as over as it'll get.

"Good luck with the concert. Rose is going with her phone so I'll be able to hear it. You'll be perfect because you're the best fucking performer they've ever seen."

I don't bother giving him time to respond before I leave.

I know better.

Gold is silent.

+-+-+

Forks is just like I always remember it and I feel myself slowly unwinding as I'm driven by taxi toward the little hospital to see Charlie. The lush greenery is unexpectedly soothing and I get the sense of being transported back in time to an awkwardly quiet teenager.

I haven't changed much. I still prefer the quiet and the dark and remaining solitary because people are loud and untrustworthy. I prefer to see my life as Point A to Point B and the straight line that connects the two, always steady and fluid and simple. College was my ticket out of the rainy confines of the town, and I was elated to go somewhere different for a change.

Chicago was different, all right. Maybe it was colder than I was used to, windier, and a little more crowded, but none of that really sticks out in regards to my freshman year there.

Edward Cullen somehow became my embodiment of Chicago and college in general. I reminisce of our time together before everything fell apart—back when we had a real relationship instead of this bitter, unspoken agreement. It makes me smile. I like remembering the good things. My first memory of him is etched into my memory with such flawless clarity that I can still recall the thick clouds of smoke escaping his mouth as he leaned against the brick wall of the campus bookstore, cigarette hanging from his lips while he stared apathetically out onto campus.

I remember thinking how remarkably similar his hair was to the sunset—all orange and rays of light shining through auburn. He looked out of place, but somehow, the location bent and suited to his image and he complimented his surroundings, made them seem as if they were far more elegant than they actually were.

I was so distracted by staring that my haphazard parking resulted in a minor thud, a jerk of my truck, and a sudden snap of his sunset head.

When I finally got the nerve to exit my cab, he proceeded to call me a "Fucking dumb ass freshman bitch," and lost his shit, right between our respective vehicles. I broke down into tears in the middle of the student-parking area as he hurled insults at me, merciless in his fury while his eyes surveyed the minor damage to his silver car.

I'd only been in town for three weeks and was still new to the area and the whole concept of being away from home. I had no friends, no family, no money, and the courses I'd chosen had proved more difficult than I'd anticipated. It was the darkest moment I could ever recall having. I was so alone. And this stranger—handsome and seething—was snarling at my cowering form and calling me names. Kicking me while I was so far down.

I scribbled down my dorm number and insurance policy with trembling hands, the ink bleeding in fat circles when it caught my tears. Then I threw it at him with another futile apology and left as quickly as my ancient truck would allow.

The next night found me at the small school auditorium. I was still in the dumps from the previous day and wanted to get out, do something fun, and remind myself that Chicago was the best place to be. After all, Forks' version of a piano recital and Chicago's were vastly different. I was struggling to see the glass as half full.

The performance wasn't my thing, really, and if it hadn't been for all the buzz about some student musical prodigy performing, I likely would have skipped it. But it was my last ditch effort to try and find something that might lift my spirits, so I dressed as nicely as my wardrobe would allow and set off to the middle of campus.

I arrived ten minutes late, just in time to see the pianist take the stage as I swung the heavy door open. When my eyes landed on the figure beneath the bright lights, a familiar shade of sunset, I gasped and released the latch.

The door shut too loudly behind me, echoing in the silence as he took his bench. It was only his eyes that darted to mine, for the briefest of moments. And then he was playing—if you could use that mediocre word to describe such a thing. I took my seat, incapable of reconciling the haggard and abrasive stranger who'd cussed me out with this man in a tuxedo, perfectly groomed and playing piano like it was an extension of his fingertips.

There were no words for when he played.

It didn't look effortless and he wasn't serene. Quite the contrary. He threw his entire being into the piece, even the ends of each tousled lock of hair seeming to move and furl to its melody. His breathing was heavy, forehead sparkling with sweat as he moved in sharp, yet graceful sways.

When he finished, bowing with a stand of applause, his green eyes searched the seats and eventually landed on mine, lingering for much too long to be unintentional. And then one corner of his lips twitched upward, so tiny a gesture that I was certain few caught it. Me - I captured the sight and locked it away in a distant mental vault, excited for the moment that I'd be able to study it in solace.

When he left the stage, my face turned red, and I realized that I hadn't even remembered to clap. I fled the building and went to my dorm, not at all surprised when haunting melodies, cigarette smoke, green eyes, and hissed expletives colored my dreams.

A week later, I got my very first visitor, and was shocked to open my door to the man with sunset hair, looking sheepish and guilty and downright glorious. Stunned as I was to see him standing there, in ripped jeans and a ratty shirt, I felt a surge of wary excitement. What a good first visitor to have.

"So… you probably already know this, but I'm Edward Cullen, music student, Volvo owner, and utter jackass…" He smiled ruefully and sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, looking particularly impish as he peeked at me through his lashes. I introduced myself and then he leaned to one side of my doorway, piercing me intensely with his stare as he uttered, "Come get some coffee with me."

It wasn't a question.

I wouldn't have said no.

We spent five hours talking over our steaming cups and his smile was as effective as his anger. He was a junior, a fact that made me more than a little nervous as I grasped my cup and stared into its contents, too nervous to meet his eyes. He had to have been experienced and he was obviously out of my league.

Afternoon turned to evening as he held me hostage under his stare and series of questions. He asked me ridiculous things, like my favorite color and band and subject and zodiac sign. My scarce attempts to ask my own questions weren't necessarily evaded, but he was always quick to turn the attention back to me.

I was baffled by his interest, occasionally flushing and waiting for the moment he realized that he was wasting his precious time talking to the most plain and boring person he'd ever willingly meet.

"Shit," he suddenly cursed, lifting his hips and patting his pockets. Green eyes met mine as he proclaimed, "I left my insurance shit at my place," settling with a scowl that swiftly transformed into a secret grin. He licked his lips and my eyes followed the gesture, entranced as they parted and he spoke through pearly white teeth, "Come with me to get it."

It wasn't a question.

I wouldn't have said no.

His "place" was an enormous apartment with a city skyline view and more glass than my entire dorm building. I don't remember our conversation as we stood in his entryway, his dark eyes fixed to mine as he twirled his keyring around one of his long, nimble fingers. Whatever mindless drivel escaped our lips was forcedly casual and buzzing with a tense anticipation.

He didn't seem nervous or apprehensive and never even mentioned insurance information. Instead, he took a step toward me, finally allowing me to catch a strong whiff of his musky scent and faint traces of cigarette smoke. I relished the exact moment he invaded my personal space, my internal alarms sounding immediately before subsiding to a deep throbbing of foreign arousal.

He moved as close as he could possibly get without actually touching me. His brows furrowed slightly before he stammered, "This is a little... I can't not..." He just didn't strike me as a man who would stammer and I watched his lips, his breath colliding with my face. He finished in a breath, "I have to kiss you."

It wasn't a question.

I wouldn't have said no.

His lips descended to mine slowly, while his hand simultaneously curled around my chin, tipping my face upwards to him. A gentle and warm press of his pillowy mouth against my own was interrupted by his thumb, sliding between us in a soft attempt to part my lips. He kept his eyes open, locked on mine until I responded, separating my mouth around the pad of his thumb.

And then all at once, we were feral, his movements and intensity leading my own. The crackle between us ignited as hands sought hair and necks and fistfuls of shirt fabric. He pushed me backwards and I was aching, nails digging into his shoulders as our hissed breathing escaped our nostrils. His shoulders were solid and heavy beneath my palms, his body unforgiving as it pressed to mine. I'd never felt anything like it, this consumption.

Truthfully, I couldn't believe he'd kissed me, was still in limbo between shock and giddiness to really grasp that… he was still kissing me. And then we hit a door and his hips pressed into mine and he was hard, and I couldn't believe that I could do that to him.

His hands gripped my waist and he finally left my mouth, only to trace his moist tongue up my jaw to my ear. I was gasping for air, tugging his shoulders closer, as my legs seemed to vibrate with tremors.

"My bedroom," he huskily declared, turning a doorknob and hurling us backward into the large, darkened room.

It wasn't a question.

I wouldn't have said no.

He took off my clothes because I was just so damned off-kilter and had no idea what was going on. It felt like my brain was still standing in that obnoxiously large living room, enjoying the skyline at sunset, while my body was unwrapped, lying exposed, panting, and flushed on his four poster bed.

It was so quick, no sweet kisses or prolonged foreplay or teasing.

He reached for his belt buckle and fumbled it loose. "You are just… so fucking soaked…" he remarked excitedly, eyes glued between my legs as he wrestled himself free of his pants. He seemed so focused on the task, and I was thankful because my limbs moved in slow motion, clouded and listless. I didn't have any time to admire him before he began sliding thin latex down his shaft. He didn't even remove his shirt. Then he was between my legs, nudging them farther apart and burying his face into my neck as he settled between my parted thighs.

His soft grunt was only a mere afterthought to the sharp pain that pierced me. Everything curled inward, my legs instinctively attempting to close as I stiffened, hissing and sinking my nails into the flesh of his rippling back.

I resented his deep, throaty and strained chuckle. "Wow, that's really just..." He gasped into my ear, retreating and thrusting gently as I turned my head to hide my abrupt tears. "Shoulda used my fingers first?" And then his lips kissed and nipped at my neck and I burned and stung and ground my teeth and was so grateful that he never lifted his head to see my tears. I held his neck tightly so he wouldn't.

When his gentle thrusts began growing faster and harder, I whined, my legs trembling as I tried to overcome the pain of the intrusion. It was like poking a finger repeatedly into an opened cut. It felt wrong and I was panicked, just hoping it would please end soon.

Misunderstanding my whimper, he breathed a tight, "God... yes, baby... fuck," and then began pumping into me in earnest, my soft cries, muffled by his shoulder, only spurring him on.

This ended up being fortunate, however, because within seconds, he was crying out into my skin, fingertips pressing against my scalp. He buried himself deeply and began nuzzling and writhing and gasping. When he stilled, hovering precariously over me and emitting hard breaths, I quickly brought my hand to my face and swiped away my tears before he could see.

I was so happy it was over.

When he rolled off of me, his face was relaxed, eyes closed as I snapped my legs shut and tried to copy his euphoric expression, offhandedly.

A lazy smirk tugged at his lips as he lifted one eyelid, glancing at me sideways. "Jesus, that was the best fuck I've had all year," he complimented. Then he reached for his bed side table and produced a cigarette, adding, "Did I get you off? Shit, I can never tell. I'm not usually so… quick—" He paused as he regarded me, his unlit cigarette hanging from his bottom lip. "What?" he asked dully.

Best fuck I've had all year…

God, I was some junior asshole's weekday fuck. To say I was devastated would have been a gross underestimate of my overly dramatic tendencies.

He appeared flummoxed as he raked his fingers through his hair, promising uncertainly, "I can still... get you off?" And then he reached for the condom still attached to his softening member, soiled with blood.

His face went bone-white, cigarette falling from his lips as he carefully removed the latex, staring at it with a horrified expression. "No fucking way," he breathed, suddenly lurching up and placing himself between my legs, forcing them open as he gaped wide-eyed.

I tried to force my knees closed, but his grip was too strong and I was just… so, so humiliated. My face was on fire, the throbbing of my loins the only sensation intense enough to break through the fog of my mortification.

He met my gaze and snapped, "You're a virgin? Why didn't you tell me!" He flung himself away quickly, as if my skin had burned him.

I explained weakly, "I-it was s-so quick, and… and… I wasn't thinking." I scrambled for the blanket, flinging it over myself as his eyes still remained fixed on the junction between my thighs, even after I'd obscured it.

But that was a lie.

I'd known exactly what I was doing, too embarrassed to admit to this amazing man that I was inferior and unwanted and had never been touched like that before. It didn't even seem possible to lose my virginity to anyone better than this Edward Cullen. He was gorgeous and perfect and rich and talented and… I lost my virginity to perfection. What could there be to regret?

"Sorry," I whispered, tears threatening to once again spill over as I looked down and hid my shamed face with my veil of hair.

"You're sorry?" he choked after a moment of pregnant silence. "You're sorry? Oh God, I didn't… if I'd known…" He trailed off and I finished for him.

"...you wouldn't have even invited me over."

It wasn't a question.

And he didn't say no.

Sore and suddenly sick, my shaking hands searched blindly for the clothes that his previously eager hands had scattered over his bed and floor. I couldn't meet his stare as I stood, still trying to cover myself as I slid on my underwear and sank my teeth into my lip to restrain my pained hiss.

He didn't speak until I began pulling on my jeans, teetering on the edge of hysterics. When he did, it was a rushed and pleading, "Wait. Please stay." I heard the shifting of the mattress of he stood, and then felt his hands on my hips and I froze. "Stay," he repeated, urgent.

And because I knew why he was asking me to stay, I answered cuttingly, "All this guilt is really unnecessary," and continued dressing myself. When I turned, my head was still downcast and my eyes immediately landed on his naked groin. I gulped, raising my eyes to his chest.

"I would have asked you to stay regardless," he insisted, soft and sincere and maybe even a little offended. I drew my eyebrows together skeptically as I slowly met his gaze. I didn't know him well enough to discern whether or not he was being honest, but his gentle, "Promise," was nearly enough to convince me. Only when he stepped closer and put his lips to mine once again, whispering, "I really like you, really need you to not leave," did I truly believe him.

So I stayed.

"I've never taken anyone's virginity before," he admitted, finally lighting that cigarette after he'd slid on his underwear and settled next to me on his bed. He looked to me uncertainly and exhaled a large plume of smoke, wondering aloud, "I feel like I should give you a fucking pamphlet or something." I laughed and the sound seemed to make his eyes brighten, his lips twitching upward as he continued, "Or a high five. I haven't decided yet."

But then his smile fell and he just looked sad. "I was too rough and fast and… Shit, I hurt you." His eyes widened and he held his hands out, as if to touch me, even though they merely lingered over my shoulders. Then in a panicked voice, cigarette filter bouncing as he spoke, he worried, "Are you okay? Should I… do you need a shower… or… a doctor? Oh, God. Do you need to go to the hospital?" The pitch of his voice rose, alarm covering his expression as he reached, then pulled away, then reached again, never touching, but obviously wanting to comfort me, without knowing how.

I snorted a laugh. And then I was doubled over in laughter, hiding my wince as I guffawed loudly.

Ignoring his alarmed expression, I managed to chuckle out, "I don't think my insurance covers painful loss of hymen, but thanks anyway." He rolled his eyes, obviously deducing that if my condition was good enough for sarcasm, then I was likely fine. "It hurt like hell, okay? But it's no big deal. In a few days, it'll be like nothing ever happened," I assured, shrugging and still embarrassed and really hoping that I was wrong about that.

"Good," he exhaled, relaxing his shoulders. "Christ, I probably scarred you for life. I swear sex is usually really good. If you would have given me the chance, I would have made it more enjoyable," he grumbled, slightly perturbed.

"Sorry," I apologized again, ducking my head.

After a moment, I felt his finger slipping under my chin, lifting my eyes to his. He grinned mischievously, sliding closer to me and brushing his lips against my cheek. "Next time will be better," he promised, pulling me down to lie next to him. I stared into his eyes for an indefinite amount of time, savoring his sunset hair and the sensations of his fingertips gliding over my bare ribs.

It wasn't a question and I didn't say no.


A/N: Thank to FrenchBeanz for beta. Six Chapters total. Happy Birthday, Jes!