Die Tonight, Live Forever. Chapter 1, Rumored Nights
BPOV
I had no idea what I was getting myself into.
No, wait, I did.
I just didn't want to admit it to myself.
The bed…was very warm. Almost too warm, even though it was a hot summer day in Forks, Washington. A warm bed wasn't to be expected, but it radiated with heat coming from the opposite side of where my sore body lay. The sensation was unfamiliar. The sun shone too brightly out of the vast window, and its unforgiving rays initially blinded me as I cracked my eyelids open to take in my surroundings. I planned to look at the floor first, hoping to find some shred of paraphernalia that led me to believe that I slept in my own bed. If it was my bedroom, there would have been books. Lots and lots of books, some sprawled open, with highlighters and pen marks and post-it notes marking what was going to be important on my next nursing school examination. Surely, I would open my eyes and be greeted by a picture of the muscular-skeletal system, the last thing I remembered studying. Instead, when I focused my burning corneas to the floor, what I found shocked me. A pile of clothing, some articles my own, lay closest to the foot of the bed. I shifted my weight in the bed and propped myself on my elbows. I stared directly to my right, finding a bed side stand that was covered by a miscellany of beer bottles, cigarette wrappers, and an ashtray filled with old cigarette butts. The smell made me nauseous, or maybe it was all the alcohol that sloshed in my stomach as I moved. Obviously, something had gone wrong last night. This was not my normal routine of waking at 5 AM. To make matters worse, I couldn't remember what had gone on last night. This added to my frustration. I had been having too many black-outs lately. I had forgotten things, important things that nursing students don't forget. And I hadn't had an explanation for any of it. I attributed the fact that I woke in this unfamiliar bed to the black outs.
I let out a long sigh as I sat up in the bed, not wanting to put the pieces together. Ignorance is bliss, after all. After a long moment, I surveyed the room, noting the several posters of football players and nameless supermodels that clung to the walls. I noted the trophies on the oak bookcase, and the Forks Spartans Letterman jacket that hung from the matching desk chair, collecting dust. I shook my head as I rolled over on to my stomach, praying no one would be next to me in bed. Fortunately, my prayers were answered, and all that lay on the pillow was a scrap piece of paper that read:
Bella- Had to go to work. Had fun last night, see ya, Mike.
Shit. I had spent the night with, of all people, Mike Newton. Great.
As I rolled back over and ran my fingers through my knotted up hair, I decided that I would hurry up and get out of here before anything else was expected of me. Mike was the kind of guy who'd most likely expect me to be cooking him lunch and waiting to jump his bones in round 2 once he got home from his job at his parents' sporting goods store. I wasn't having that at all. I pulled my shorts and tank top on and hurried down the stairs from the small, crappy apartment complex. I hopped into my old beat-ass truck and drove off before Newton would dare to picture me waiting for him when he returned.
As a rule, I waited for no man.
That is, of course, with one exception: Charlie.
My father, the police chief of the small town of Forks, had always been a little too lenient with me, or at least that's what the town's folk have said since I killed my mother.
I was constantly hearing the rumors, most of which were true.
"Awe, there goes Chief Swan's daughter, poor girl, did you know she actually thinks she killed her mother?"
"Be careful getting in a car with Bella, she'll cut herself if anything goes wrong, you know."
Or, my personal favorite:
"If you ask me, Charlie should've kept a tight leash on that one. She's become the town trollop ever since her mother passed on. She'd fuck a snake if she could hold it still long enough. Where did that man go wrong?"
Driving now, I chuckled to myself as I thought about the gossip that my one night stand with Newton would cause.
Bring it on, Forks.
Before I go any further, I should probably let you in on a well-known secret. I am a murderer. And not just any murderer, no, I'm too good for all that brutal, cut-throat violence. No, I'm more of the kill-my-own-family-members type of murderer. I'll never forget what the papers read the day after the accident.
"Renee Swan, of Forks, WA, wife of Chief Charlie Swan of the Forks Police Department, was tragically killed on Wednesday, when her daughter, Isabella Swan, 16, lost control of her vehicle and collided with a telephone pole. No other serious injuries were reported from the remaining victims."
I had murdered my own mother, and had lived to tell about it. I had to live with the consequences. I had to fake a smile, play the nice girl, be the head cheerleader, the homecoming queen, and the prom queen; the one everyone adored and felt pity for all throughout my high school years. As I accomplished this, the wounds, covered by thick bandages of fake smiles and tiaras, still ached deep in my soul. I felt guilt, remorse, and angst every day, all day, but I still got through it.
I missed my mother, and I felt completely responsible for her death.
Of course, my wounds were healing. 5 years after the fact and I was beginning to live life like any normal human woman would.
I rose each morning at 5 AM. I put on my scrubs. I went to my clinical at the hospital I was assigned to for nursing school, and I came home. Once I was home, I cooked Charlie a good meal and sat down and watched an episode of Two and a Half Men or read part of a new book, and then I began the long battle of assignments that awaited me. I studied for hours upon hours, memorizing formulas, scientific notations, medications, physiology, anatomy, and much, much more. Then, to unwind, I normally had a glass of wine, cried, cut myself, took a shower, and went to bed. Perfectly normal, routine coping mechanisms. The day would begin again. The routine repeated. I was living a perfectly normal life. I reassured myself of this fact every single day.
Every day, all day, with the exception of Fridays and Saturdays, when I spent all night dancing or bartending at the strip club, I was a mature, responsible young adult. After all, a girl had to make money somehow.
But today, for some reason, had been different. Last night had obviously gotten too far out of control, and I made the necessary preparations to deal with the consequences of my actions, which I couldn't even remember. It was a Saturday morning. Saturday mornings usually meant waking up, going for a run (to fight off the massive hangover from the night before, of course), and spending all day with my nose in the books until it was time to head to the club to dance or bartend for precious dollars. It did not consist of me waking up in boys' beds, despite what the town's folk would have you believe.
As I pulled into the driveway of our old white house, I noticed that Charlie's police cruiser was still sitting in its place. Again, it was unusual for a Sunday. As I bolted up the porch's steps, I was met with the unstoppable force of Chief Swan's glare, his face livid as he stood, framed by the screen door. His posture screamed something like 'you're in trouble,' but when he opened his mouth to speak, his words didn't sing to the same tune.
"Bells," he mumbled in what seemed to be disbelief. His voice seemed hurt, upset, confused.
"What, dad? I'm sorry I wasn't home…I stayed over Angela's last night after work, and…"
"What, Bella? Oh, no, no, I'm not irritated about you; I'm just late for work, is all. I've been sleeping in way too late recently," he reached his hand behind his head and scratched, relaxing his posture, "I guess I need some of your responsibility to rub off on me," he laughed and smiled, swinging open the screen door for me. I sighed mentally, a long, long sigh of relief.
Of course, Charlie heard the rumors everywhere he went.
His daughter was a tramp.
His daughter thought she was a murderer.
His daughter was a drunken stripper who cut herself.
But to Charlie, I was a young, responsible adult who gave no one any reason to worry. Who cared if I drank? Who cared if I had sex? Who cared if I stripped from time to time to make a little bit of nursing school money? Charlie, of course, being a good father, turned his cheek to that specific 'rumor,' and didn't really know it's truth, but regardless, had always defended me by saying that I was an adult, and a damn good one thus far. He thought that when I went to 'work,' I went to work at the library, a place that Charlie rarely, if ever set foot into. Who were they to judge me? Forks could go to hell.
"You want me to make you some breakfast before you go, Dad?" I offered, my head still pounding from the Jack Daniels-induced coma I was starting to come out of.
"No, no, Bells, I'm running late anyway. Have a good day, don't you study too hard," and with a kiss on the cheek, he was in his cruiser and on his way. I sighed again as I watched the car disappear into the bright summer day.
A few hours later, as I lay on my bed, I sipped some red wine from the bottle and stared at a razor blade that taunted me from my desk across the room. This was normalcy, a ritual. This was relief from the pressure of everyday life, and it was calling to me in the form of a sharp piece of metal.
Every day, along with this conflict about cutting, several questions raised in my head.
Why exactly was I putting myself through this?
Why was I still so wrecked with guilt over my mother's death?
Was it because without her, I had no best friend?
Without her, my father was a widower?
Without her, my life lost most of its direction?
These were questions I had no answers to.
Self-inflicted pain, in turn, became my resolve. At first, it was hard. The smell of the blood made me nauseous beyond my wildest dreams. It filled my head with the scent of rust and winter, and made my stomach turn with such a cruel flip, I had wretched the first few times I had run the blade across my wrist. But with practice, the nausea and the pain became easier and ritualistic. Without a second thought, I slid the blade, now in my hand, across my left wrist in a steady diagonal line, just long enough to be hidden underneath the cuff of my bartender's costume.
A moment after letting the bright red stream of blood flow freely from my wrist, I closed my eyes, covered it with my other palm, and moved on with life. I won't say I regretted doing this every day, but there was always an accompaniment of remorse with the relief.
With a heavy sigh, I stood from my bed and searched out my costume for the evening. Saturdays were normally my bartending nights, and I wore the same black and white 'Playboy Bunny' costume. I slid my legs into my fishnet tights, slid my corset over my chest, and shoved my tail, ears, collar and cuffs into my duffle bag. I then grabbed the swankiest pair of stilettos I owned and tossed them in along with an Anatomy and Physiology textbook. I figured if the bar was slow, I could read up on the muscles of the human body for my test on Monday. I then proceeded with the same routine as normal. I grabbed my old ratty sweat pants and a large, over-sized hooded sweatshirt to conceal my now scantily clad frame as I made my commute to the old, run-down strip club I called my place of employment.
The bar was packed that evening. Every time I turned around, there were five more patrons waiting for cocktails, beers, and daiquiris. As I shook my martini shaker, mixing a cosmopolitan up for a server who waited patiently for her drinks, I couldn't help but notice the two new featured 'dancers' of the evening.
"Welcome, gentlemen, to the Forks Climax, the area's premier source for your topless entertainment!" The announcer's voice rang over the crowd as the two ladies made their entrance to the main stage.
"Tonight, on the main stage, we're featuring Rosie!" The first new girl, presumably named 'Rosie', was a tall, bodacious woman with a creamy complexion and flowing blonde hair that tormented the men that she strutted past. As she hitched her long, stocking-clad leg to the silver pole, the men whopped and hollered for her. She proceeded to throw her other leg to the pole, and hung upside down, her bosoms nearly falling from her hot pink lingerie. She spun gracefully and landed in a full split. As Rosie crawled toward the strip club patrons, collecting her well-earned ones and five's, another girl made her entrance.
"…and, please welcome her sister, Wonderland!" The announcer became more enthusiastic. Everyone loved a sexy blonde, but the girl that joined her on the stage was a sight to be seen. She danced lightly, as if she were a ballerina, on to the stage in her six inch platform heels. Without them, she might have been shorter than I was. The petite stripper shook out her cropped brunette hair and slid down the pole next to Rosie. Strangely enough, she donned the same pale skin as the beautiful blonde. They certainly looked related; even though I was sure it was just part of their act. Men loved sisters, especially when they were exposing themselves on the same stage as each other and performing unspeakable acts of lust.
I couldn't help but giggle at the tiny brunette's stage name. Wonderland. Like Alice in Wonderland, or something? Maybe. I shook my head as I made another drink. Rosie and her sister Wonderland successfully completed their show around midnight, as the other well-known dancers made their appearance in their place. Among them, a girl who had graduated in my class in high school, Jessica, strut her figure in nothing but a lime green boa. I rolled my eyes. She was always the most dramatic of the performers. I truly believed in working this job for the money, but Jessica surely did this job for the attention.
She would definitely shit herself if she knew the unspeakable acts that Mike Newton, a regular patron of Forks Climax, had attempted to perform on me last night.
Funny, the longer the day was, the more I remembered about our chance encounter. I shuttered at the thought of his feeble attempt to satisfy my sexual desire. Maybe it was true that I 'slept around,' but not too often was I actually satisfied. It seemed like there weren't enough experienced 20-something dicks in Forks to help me through all of my repressed frustration. In my present surroundings, that fact was hard to imagine. I stood at the bar, finally able to breathe for a moment. From between my chest, I pulled out my pack of cigarettes. I allowed one to dangle in my lips as I strutted down the bar, waiting for a kind gentleman to offer me a light.
This was the same way I ended waking up in Newton's bed this morning.
If I was lucky, perhaps it would end the same way.
That was when I saw him.
He was unlike any man I'd ever seen before.
As the main door opened, a fresh, humid breeze of the now stormy weather travelled with him. Our eyes locked immediately from across the room. As I stood, cigarette still unlit in my lips, I froze, leaning up against the bar. It was then that I noticed his eyes.
His eyes.
His eyes, in all their burning, golden glory, met mine with such intensity; I thought for sure the friction between us would light my cigarette by itself. My heart stopped. My palms became clammy. I could not remember how to breathe.
Running a pale white hand through his tussled bronze hair, the stranger reached his opposite hand in his pocket, breaking our impromptu staring contest. Quicker than I had expected, he pulled a lighter and lit it, inches from my face. I held my cigarette to it and puffed, inhaling the smoke as seductively as possible. He cocked his head to the side, giving a brilliant, gorgeous crooked smile. I exhaled unsteadily as our eyes met again.
"Thanks for that," I murmured, nearly inaudible compared to the shouting that went on as Jessica continued her performance.
"Nothing like helping a damsel in distress," he remarked thoughtfully, his jaw line shifting back and forth as he eyed me. Regretfully, I turned away to mix another drink for the strip club veteran who sat four seats away from this new man. I returned as quickly as I'd left.
"So," I eyed him enthusiastically, still puffing on my cigarette, "What'll it be?" I asked, following suit with bartender lingo. He smiled, folding his hands intricately in front of his mouth and resting his elbows on the bar. His pale complexion seemed to glow under the neon of the club's ceiling, much like Rosie's or Wonderland's had.
"I'm not sure," his voice, soft as velvet, but not lost in the crowd, raised an unfamiliar urge of desire in me, "What's your drink of choice?"
I raised an eyebrow, reaching for a short glass and a brand new bottle of Jack Daniel's. I smirked back at the beautiful stranger.
"Me? Well, I'm a Jack girl myself," I sighed, pouring him a drink, trying to be as nonchalant as humanly possible, yet graceful at the same time, "But he gets me into a lot of trouble," I added, finishing my pour. It was crisp and clean and looked fantastic. He would be impressed, and I was very happy with myself, admittedly.
He first eyed the drink, then eyed me, and pushed it in my direction.
"As I said, always happy to help a damsel in distress," he gestured for me to drink. I looked around the bar to make sure that my customers were taken care of. Money, after all, was my primary goal here. Once I was sure everyone was taken care of, I walked back over to the man, and quickly, sexually, took the glass and gulped the entire drink in one swoop. The alcohol burned my throat and cleared my sinuses in one swift motion down my esophagus. I slammed the glass to the bar and let out a heavy sigh of flames. I allowed my elbow to rest on the bar for what seemed like a fraction of a second, and as he eyed me again, he quickly, gently, gripped my forearm, from where my white costume cuff hung. It took me by great surprise.
My first instinct, of course, was to pull away and call for security. This wasn't the first time I had been groped at in this bar, and I knew is certainly would not be the last. The risk came along with the territory, and to be honest, I loved every minute of it. But then, his topaz colored eyes smoldered into something I didn't recognize as a human emotion as he asked,
"Did you hurt yourself, Miss Bells?" I blinked for a moment. How did he know my name? Surely I had never seen him here before, and I did not have a name tag, either. Something was strange about this man, yet intriguing and irresistible at the same time. I wanted to tell him everything.
He seemed to be listening hard for a moment to something I couldn't hear even if I wanted to.
His eyes then captured my blood-stained cuff in their view. For a moment, I noted his cold touch, and how soothing it was around my freshly inflicted wound on my wrist.
"That is your name, yes?" He asked, this time very politely, voice creamy as ever. My eyes fluttered and my heart raced. He seemed to enjoy it. This was entrapment.
"Uhm…yes…yes, earlier. Before work," I responded, and he loosened his grip around my forearm. The burning of the cut came back instantaneously. I was almost disappointed.
"Well, Bells," he sighed, closing his eyes for a moment, "You should be more careful as to where you bleed."
The words sent a chill down my spine.
"Uhh…thank you…I'll try to be more careful next time."
"Who knows, one day, your life may depend on that," he whispered darkly in my ear, pulling me closer now. I was leaning over the bar, the balls of my feet aching with pain as my weight rested fully on them in my stilettos. My toes were officially numb.
"Who are you?" I whispered back, fully distracted by the sweet smell of his breath on my face. He chuckled lowly.
"How utterly rude of me," he reflected, then met my gaze, "I'm Edward. Pleasure to meet you, Miss Bells." His hand slipped down my forearm to meet my hand; fire and ice colliding in one intense touch. He lifted my left hand to his mouth and kissed it lightly, gentlemanly. I shuddered at the feel of his cool lips on my skin, a strange, unfamiliar sensation to me.
"Nice to meet you, Edward," I muttered breathlessly.
My daze was abruptly interrupted as the breeze from the door came again. From the balls of my feet, I felt the most awful feeling lurch through me as my gaze drifted to the door. There stood my father, Charlie, brows furrowed and mustache twitching in what appeared to be an unbearable rage. He surveyed the room, looking for something.
"Oh, shit!" I yelled, hitting the floor in the same second, breaking my connection with Edward. I had to think fast. I improvised a plan as I crawled along the bar, planning an escape. I sensed Charlie's presence as he entered the club, and I knew he was looking for me. In that moment, I'd never felt more hopeless. I crawled to the end of the bar, my feet still numb and the knees of my fishnet stockings ripping with every drag of my clumsy limbs as I made my way to an exit. I turned to meet Edward's gaze from the bar; he was obviously wondering what was wrong with me. With only my head, I urged him to meet me at the end of the bar where I stood in a half-crouched position. He sprang immediately, meeting me and wrapping his arm around my waist, covering the side of my face with his other icy hand, and walked me briskly toward the dressing room doors. I was shocked that he knew to act so quickly.
"I'll meet you in the alley way, just…just, give me a minute," I stuttered quickly, scared for my life. I wouldn't put it past Charlie to open fire in the crowded strip club if he learned all the rumors were true. I shuddered at the thought as my newfound savior, Edward, nodded to me and ran towards the exit doors. I sprinted as fast as I could with my numb feet, finding Jessica in the back.
"Ohmigod, Bella, did you see how much money I made? God, they loved it. They loved me," Jessica was in her own little world, reassuring herself of her awesomeness.
"How about making a little more, lady, get your ass out there and tend my bar!" I urged her, picking up some fabric that resembled clothing and throwing it at her.
"Wait- what?"
"Charlie is here!" I rasped, forcing her to understand the severity of my situation.
"I have to go. NOW!" I pushed her out the door before she could object, picked up my belongings and darted toward the alley way, hardly expecting Edward to remain there waiting for me.
Finally, leaning against the brick wall, in the first relief that came in what felt like hours to me, I removed my shoes and strode barefoot towards a dark figure, draped in a form-fitting leather jacket at the end of the alley. I smiled a half-hearted smile as I recognized my own personal hero.
"Thank you so much for what you did back there, you don't know," his icy finger pressed gently against my lips, stopping my flow of speech.
"Shhh…It seems like you need more saving than was to be expected, Bella," he whispered, using my full name. My eyes widened in horror.
"How do you…"
"Shh. I just know. Don't worry now, you're safe with me."
And I actually believed him
Who was this guy?
And, more importantly, where had he been all my life?