Here's the first fanfic I ever wrote—well, the first one I wrote on a computer, anyway. (I have a box full of spiral notebooks with my first efforts scrawled in them. I'm truly low-tech and old-fashioned. I dread the future—especially if it ends up being book-less. I mean the books with actual pages that you can touch and feel and turn, and pictures that you can stare at and wonder about without a screen in the way. But I digress…)

I was inspired very directly by one of the beginning scenes in the fanfic "Broken Wings and Inked Armor," which is no longer available on Fanfiction but is, last time I checked, still on Twilighted. It's a great story, although E&B's foray into therapy and separation towards the end kind of broke my heart. At least I was a little more prepared for that resolution of their codependent desires after reading "Wide Awake." And I didn't finish either story, because I stop reading fanfics when the therapists start weighing in.

Maybe it's because I was a trainee therapist myself at one point, but I am extremely skeptical of therapists. (Which shouldn't dissuade you from trying therapy, because a good therapist is a great tool for getting perspective on your life and where you want it to go. However, there are plenty of bad therapists out there, and perfectly fine therapists that will be a bad fit for you, so listen to your gut instinct, and if you don't feel good about them and what they have to offer you, try someone else. What therapy isn't, however, is a satisfying substitute for friends and family who care, although a good therapist will help you make the most of the therapy relationship to almost get those needs met, and will most certainly not judge you negatively for needing affection from your therapist.)

Anyway, early on in "Broken Wings" we encounter Bella alone, drinking and dancing at a bar, before leaving, still by herself, feeling relief and empowerment (relatively speaking) from the experience. I had a good laugh at how that could never be me for any number of reasons, and then I started thinking about what it would look like if a Bella with my type of personality and issues ended up drinking on a nightclub dance floor…which makes it sound like the start of a bad joke ("A Bella, a vampire, and a werewolf go into a bar,"), and maybe that's what you'll think of this story as.

That's okay. I'm comfortable with being the object of fun, or even derision. I get a lot of laughs out of myself too, which is really lucky and a skill I recommend acquiring ASAP if you don't have it already.

Hope you are well and still listening to Edward and his speech in Chapter 1's A/N. By the by, it's snowing here. Big fat flakes, so determinedly cheerful, and totally ignoring the fact that after the longest winter I've ever lived through, the snow is not particularly welcome. Kind of a good role model, really—do what you're meant to do, even if the world around you would rather you didn't. Oftentimes, it's for the best—we really need the moisture. And even if it ends in disaster, it's not like we can be anything other than ourselves any more than the moisture can keep from falling out of the sky when it gets heavy enough.

Or at least that's what I tell myself. With love, liza the snowflake in spring

p.s. Snowflakes in winter and warm sunshine in spring (and all Edward-Bella & Company ownership rights) to the incomparable Stephenie Meyer, whose timing at Twilight was just exactly right.

XxXxXx

The crowd got impossibly louder as the band my friends had come for took the stage. Jessica, Lauren, Angela and a couple of other girls from down the hall in our dorm started screaming along with seemingly most of the concert-goers. Meanwhile, I retreated farther from the table-less area in front, wanting for all the world to cover my ears with my hands and run out the doors. Instead I managed a slightly less pitiful maneuver towards the bar lining the rear of the nightclub.

The bar. That's purportedly why we were here anyway. Yes, I had turned 21 today, the holy grail of the inebriation-focused undergraduate of which Jessica and Lauren shone as beautiful, desired examples. I was here with them only because they had heard Angela talking to me about my birthday yesterday, trying to talk me into celebrating it in the traditional manner even though doing so was almost as far from Angela's routine comfort zone as it was from mine. But Angela managed significantly more blending into the normal college dorm lifestyle than I, helped along by her long-term relationship with her boyfriend Ben.

I sucked in a breath and sighed, trying to relax as the speakers blared out over-amplified guitar music that sounded to me like the tuneless thunder of Hell, punctuated by the soulless shrieking of the damned. As I stood there alone near the bar, wondering why on earth I had capitulated and agreed to this night of torture and earnestly promising myself never, ever to do so again, I felt a stranger's hand circle around my back and attach itself to my right hip. I froze in shock but the hand kept moving, edging lower, until it actually palmed my – gulp – butt. I was so shocked at that unexpected, unlooked for contact that I jumped before trying to cringe away.

But the stranger attached to the invading and unwelcome hand just moved closer. His breath smelled like cheap beer and cigarettes, and he had an unshaven, swollen face dominated by bloodshot, leering eyes. He backed me into a barstool and tore what was left of my equanimity and sprayed-on self-confidence to shreds.

"Hey there, pretty girl," he intoned in a gravelly voice that made me shudder with fear and attempt to back up further, pressing my left side into the bar.

I was truly terrified, and looked around wildly for assistance as the man pulled me closer to himself in his ripped jeans and sweaty t-shirt. I wasn't able to catch anyone's eye, as most of the nightclub-goers were focused on the band in front. My view of my friends was completely blocked by the many bodies in between their place up front and mine in the back, and there was no one on the neighboring barstools to see my panic.

The man I still could not quite believe was accosting me – This is a public place, for goodness' sake, what is he thinking? – then leaned down to whisper, "Why dontcha come with me, sexy lady," into my ear, which sounds ridiculous in the daylight but was bone-chilling scary in the moment, and started to pull me towards a side door.

I did not need to be told that heading out into a dark alley next to the nightclub with a drunk, leering man I didn't know who had already violated my personal space and looked very intent on violating more was a bad idea, but I am that inhibited and shy, that self-conscious and self-loathing that I couldn't bring myself to scream or create any more of a scene than simply trying to resist the stranger's attempt to drag me off. And since I am a petite 5'3" and barely break 100 pounds, I succeeded only in slightly slowing him down and then stumbling over my own feet.

I'd had no more alcohol than a few sips of one rum and coke that night, so surely I wasn't drunk yet and certainly I didn't intend to be. But my fear and native clumsiness gave him even more advantage than the small amount of alcohol I had obligingly, if not happily, consumed earlier in the evening at the goading of my friends.

The frightening stranger had dragged me almost to the side door, despite my body being turned away from his and me straining with all my might back towards the bar, my eyes still searching futilely for some good Samaritan's attention. I pulled as hard as I could against the man's grip on my wrist, hurting myself and I hoped him, then looked back briefly to see him stretch out the arm not gripping mine to open the exit door. I whipped my head back towards the bar, tears blinding me, and was trying to find the courage to scream when I felt his forward momentum suddenly interrupted.

I staggered a bit, stumbling into my attacker, then heard a stranger's voice saying "I don't think the lady wishes to leave. I suggest you let go of her now." The voice was low and masculine and managed to sound both supremely cultured and very, very threatening. I shivered.

The man who had hold of me sneered and said "Out of my way, college boy. I saw her first."

Then two things happened simultaneously. One was that the thick-muscled arms in the bright yellow shirt of one of the club bouncers came around the arms of the man dragging me out. This mercifully forced his lecherous hand off my body and allowed me to stand, still safely within the confines of the club, as the exit door opened and the bouncer and my attacker exited. The latter was swearing violently but losing his struggle with the bouncer, a much bigger man. Or so I assumed, as I heard a door open and shut with my attacker's ugly voice disappearing behind it, but didn't see much, too overcome with relief and lingering fear to look up and witness the exchange.

The other thing that happened is that a fresh pair of hands – gentle, strong, long-fingered hands this time, that moved with purpose but somehow kindness too – wrapped around my hips as the deep, honey-toned voice of my rescuer spoke softly in my ear, "You look distressed. May I escort you back to the office to sit down for a bit?"

Then, without waiting for a response from me, and by applying just the right amount of pressure to my hips with those magic hands, my savior effortlessly turned me towards the back of the club and started me moving forward. This time I did nothing to resist as he guided me along, passing the small crowd of people now watching us with interest from around the bar. I was too grateful, as well as overwhelmed by the intensely masculine feel and the comforting warmth of the tall man behind me, to even think about resisting his influence.

Finally, we reached an unmarked steel door set in the back wall. The door was opened by one of the mystery man's strong hands while the other guided me through it and into a dark room of blissful quiet.

XxXxXx

I hadn't intended on doing any more than dropping in to greet Jasper, knowing that he would likely be preoccupied supervising a busy night at his club.

I also had little patience for and much less interest in the juvenile antics of the college crowd attracted by the band he had booked for the night. Long-gone from college myself, I preferred with even greater strength than I had in my undergrad days the refinement of a concert hall, or the subdued atmosphere of a jazz club, or even the claustrophobic, adrenaline-filled ambience of a smaller club packed with the groupies of an up-and-coming indie rock group to the soullessness of this trendy, inelegant, highly-profitable venture.

But Jasper knew his business, and although he had acquired stellar examples of my preferred night-time venues (except for the orchestral concert hall – he wasn't that rich, yet), I couldn't fault him for this acquisition and the lengths it went in supporting my sister Alice in both her efforts at establishing her own fashion-design house and her high-end, overly-generous shopping.

For that was my sister, in sum: high-end and overly-generous. She had – even for the old-money, hyper-privileged set we belonged to by birth and breeding – impeccable taste and an artistic eye for form and color that I could only admire and not understand in the least. Paired with the eyes and mind of an artist was a heart of such warmth and loving sincerity that I had more than once reflected on the likelihood that one of us was secretly adopted, as there was no way genetics could be so flexible as to allow one set of parents to produce both her and a cold-hearted bastard like me.

"Cold-hearted bastard…" the choice and exceedingly-accurate words of Tanya's last insult to me echoed in my head, and I could almost feel the reverberations of the front door of our – now my – penthouse as she left me for the last time. Though it was just last month, it felt like a lifetime ago, and I couldn't say I was anything but grateful for that fact.

I had thought maybe if I just settled down with someone vaguely appropriate for my life as the heir to the Masen family empire I might learn to love the person the way my father had loved my mother, or the way my uncle loved my aunt now. But in retrospect I guess that would have required Tanya to in any way resemble my mother, or my aunt, and that – as I should have known from the start – she did not.

This was my philosophical frame of mind as I entered the club and briefly scanned the scene before me. Just as I was about to turn towards the rear office door to find Jasper and try to convince him to head out for a late dinner and drinks, I caught sight of a surely-underage girl with terrified eyes being dragged backwards towards the alley exit door. I understood what was going on even before I visually assessed the villain dragging her, and signaled the bouncer at the main entrance as I made my way quickly to the side exit, blocking the asshole's route.

When he caught sight of me planted directly in front of him, he looked up and snarled.

I looked over his shoulder, checking the progress of the bouncer, as I stated with quiet confidence, "I don't think the lady wishes to leave. I suggest you let go of her now."

Asshole (as I had christened him) sneered and slurred, "Out of my way, college boy. I saw her first," just as the bouncer arrived on the scene, wasting no time in restraining what was now Surprised and Extremely-Frustrated Asshole and escorting him out the side entrance he had so desired to use.

I didn't wait to watch the exchange between club security and the would-be – no doubt in my mind – rapist, trusting in the expertise and professionalism not to mention brute strength of Jasper's security staff. Instead my attention was instantly and completely captured by the trembling little girl just in front of me. She hadn't looked up when Asshole was removed and so I couldn't assess her condition from her expression, but the rest of her body looked about ready to pass out from shock.

My own body reacted immediately, with a speed and confidence that puzzled my rational brain when it caught up to my hands. Usually I am loathe to get involved in the emotional upheavals of others. This was one of the main ways I earned Tanya's cold-hearted bastard epithet, a fact of which I was not only aware but borderline proud.

But here I was, before I knew a thing about it, with both my hands wrapped around the little girl's hips, whispering comforting words in as sweet a voice as I could muster.

Then I was guiding her back towards the private office with at least as much confidence and conviction as Asshole had been marching her out the door just seconds before. And once again, the silly little thing put up no audible fight, although I hope she had significantly less terror flashing in her eyes.

Jasper looked up as we entered, waving us in with a smile while he remained facing a bank of monitor screens and talking animatedly on his headset. I knew the headset was his connection to his security personnel, and guessed that he was supervising the final disposition of Asshole, who was sure to be banned from Jasper's clubs for his behavior tonight.

I didn't know if the cops had been called, although as I reflected on it I wasn't sure what they could have been called for as technically the little girl still shaking in front of me hadn't said "no" or "stop" or "get off of me you freaking asshole" or any of the other reasonable things that reasonable women surely would have said in her shoes. Perhaps the security cameras had caught the terror in her eyes, but would visually-expressed emotion hold up in a court of law?

Even though I knew much more of business than criminal law, I was reasonably confident the answer was no. And selfishly, I was glad, glad that this little girl I seemed to take an irrational interest in wouldn't need to be interrogated by the police and re-live the naïve terror of her experience in a public courtroom, and glad that I wouldn't need to be interrupted in whatever I intended to do with her now.

I have intentions towards this little thing? I silently questioned myself even as I firmly guided her to the black leather couch and sat down, pulling her down next to me. She finally looked up at me then, and the trust and gratitude in her lovely eyes took all other thoughts away besides the now overarchingly and shockingly urgent question: What does she need to feel safe?

XxXxXx

Before I fully realized what was happening, my rescuer had me through a heavy metal door in the back of the club and into a dark room of blissful quiet, the incessant blaring of the band having been muted to a dull hum. I had just become aware of a friendly-looking man at a desk in the corner of the room when I felt myself being pulled down onto a cool leather surface, and a strong, warm arm circling around my shoulders and resting heavily against my back.

I looked up and into the most striking pair of green eyes I could ever imagine, let alone see. My breathing remained labored and shallow, but the reason for this condition changed from lingering panic to overwhelming… desire? I couldn't be certain, having felt nothing more than teenage crushes on unobtainable men (and a couple very masculine women), but in that moment I felt like I would do anything the owner of those eyes asked of me, and do it gladly. Surely desire would explain both the fearless certainty of my obedience and the warm wetness down below.

However, my green-eyed rescuer asked nothing of me, not speaking at all as he continued to gaze intently, and it was the man in the corner who finally broke the silence amongst us and asked if I was all right. I turned to him to assure him I was fine, as my cheeks flamed at my embarrassment over being caught in such a vulnerable and schoolgirlish situation, and I started to rise from the sofa intending to thank my rescuer, make my excuses and leave.

However, I didn't get farther in rising than leaning slightly forward and tensing my thighs before the arm around me tightened and that rich, low voice rumbled once more in my ear, saying, to my surprise, "Where do you think you're going?"

I turned back to the green eyes, confused that my protector seemed angry at the idea of my leaving him now. Shouldn't he be only too glad to be rid of the incompetent-girl-masquerading-as-nightclub-goer who so artlessly required his chivalrous but surely pitying assistance?

XxXxXx

I couldn't believe she was already trying to leave. Didn't she have even the common sense of a child? She had just experienced well-justified primal fear and required a rather dramatic last-minute rescue from a very ugly imminent attack. Didn't she think rest and a reprieve from reality were warranted right now? Didn't she trust me to provide those things for her?

I frowned at my increasingly possessive inner monologue and realized belatedly that I was frowning at her, causing her to shrink back against my arm and cast her eyes down once more.

"I'm sorry," I leaned in and spoke softly to her. "I didn't mean to offend you, but I don't think that it is a good idea for you to get up right now. You're in shock; you need to rest until it wears off. Maybe eat and drink something too." The last bit I said louder, with an eye cast towards Jasper, who nodded and got on the intercom to the bar and kitchen, ordering food and drink to be brought to us quickly.

She looked up at me again, shyly, through her long, dark eyelashes, and smiled tentatively. "Thank you," she said then, with such warmth and sincerity, such genuine earnestness, that even the absolute girlishness (I've never, even as a boy myself, been a connoisseur of girls, instead preferring mature, sexually-confident women) of her high, light voice couldn't prevent the tightening of her hold on me. This was a figurative hold of course, for physically she was sitting rigidly straight, hands clasped in her lap, her entire body still trembling slightly.

Then she continued: "I'm so sorry for causing you-" aaand I lost my shit right then and there, reaching down and scooping her up none too gently, settling her in my lap sideways, wrapping my arms tightly around her and hissing in her ear "Don't you ever apologize to me again."

I felt her body tense and go still, and from Jasper I heard a tentative "Edward, are you alright man?"

But I ignored him and didn't give her an inch, keeping her locked in my arms, with one of my hands slowly rubbing up and down her exposed right arm in what I desperately hoped was a soothing manner.

I couldn't have offered a rational explanation for my behavior in that moment if my life – even if her life – depended on it. I just knew with complete certainty that I could not tolerate hearing her apologize for her innocence, so nearly violated, or for her vulnerability, so recently abused and obviously unappreciated by whatever fools were supposed to be taking care of her.

At that thought my eyes narrowed and I was about to begin an interrogation of the little girl in my lap to find out who had brought her here and under what absurd pretenses, seeing as she so clearly belonged at this moment only in a warm, snug bed within a warm, safe home, preferably with me watching over her. I shocked myself with that last sentiment, but any further reflection was interrupted by knocking at the door.

XxXxXx

I was just beginning to relax in the strong, restraining yet oh-so-comforting arms of my quixotic hero when I heard knocking on the door and tensed again immediately. He must have noticed my reaction, because his warm hand shifted its soothing movements from my arm to my back while his other arm squeezed me gently. "Shhh, little one, it's all right; you're safe here with me."

And, as if to underscore the truth of those words and the sincerity of his sentiment, he started slowly rocking me while his neck arched forward and captured my head with his own, pulling me back until I was nestled under his chin and up against his chest.

I couldn't help what happened next, truly. After drinking alcohol and having the worst scare of my life, then being surrounded by a warm, strong, soothing body in a warm, quiet, soothing room, and being frankly overwhelmed by the atypical attention of a particularly attractive and unspeakably comforting male, I did the only thing possible in my behavioral repertoire: I fell asleep.

XxXxXx

I couldn't quite believe it when I realized her breathing had taken on the regular quality characteristic of sleep. Certainly, I wanted her to trust me… but surely she wouldn't give up her defenses that thoroughly; that quickly?

While I was initiating then puzzling over this new development, Jasper had gotten up from behind his desk and opened the door for the server delivering a plate of bar food – a burger and fries, it appeared – and a large glass of Coke. He had taken it and thanked the woman, closing the door behind her, and then had set the food down on the low table in front of me and the girl now asleep in my arms.

Jasper sat back in the armchair across from me, clasped his hands behind his head, put his feet up and smiled… a laconic, lazy grin that I knew well from our late-night poker games. He thought he had me cornered, that he was calling me out on a large and considerably expensive bluff. And, looking down at the girl-angel asleep on my chest- well, I realized he was right.

"Shut the fuck up, Jazz," I growled, though he hadn't said a word.

"Sure, sure" he drawled in that easy Texan way of his. "Keep your pants on, big man," and the mother-fucker, well, sister-fucker if we're going to be precise about it, had the audacity to wink.

That set me right off, as he knew it would. "She's not even legal, for Christ's sake! I can't touch her and you know it," I spat back, as if it was his fault that this continually-growing attraction I was feeling for the girl in my arms could never amount to anything real, anything satisfying for us both.

At that, Jasper took his feet off of the coffee table, brought his hands down, leaned forward and said: "First off, Eduardo, [Jasper only calls me that when he feels I am playing the class card, looking down on him for the more blue-collared nature of his businesses. He is both proud of his accomplishments and sensitive about the modesty of his background, a potent combination.] seeing as it was Felix checking ID at the door tonight I know nothing about her being underage… she's either absolutely legal or in possession of the best fake ID on the damn east coast. And given her obvious lack of, shall we say, sophistication in other areas of the nightlife scene, I'd have to rate the second possibility as highly unlikely at best." Usually a man of few words, Jasper was on a roll; I must have really pissed him off.

"Second, did it ever occur to you that this might just be your lucky night? You obviously like her, and she's not exactly running away, so maybe you should try for once to not be a pompous, womanizing ass and see what happens." Then he sat back and grinned.

"You've been spending too much time with Alice," I spit back, and he shrugged.

"Your sister's smart, smarter than either one of us, and she knows you well," Jasper responded.

I couldn't deny that and, looking down again at the delicate beauty resting in my lap for God's sake, I didn't particularly want to.

I probably would have sat staring down at her until she woke up, hopefully not until late, late in the morning, but Jasper's communications system buzzed and he was back to the headset, discussing something about my girl (my girl?) if his frequent glances in her direction were any indication.

I started paying more attention, and caught his last response: "Tell them I'm not sure that's a good idea." Then, a bit more forcefully, "Because after almost being hauled out - without being noticed by these so-called friends, feel free to point out – of my club by a grade-A pervert, she's safe and sleeping… no, you know what Allan? I'll get this. Be right there," and Jasper threw the headset down and stood up.

"Edward, man, sorry to bother you with this right now, but the girl's friends – assuming this is indeed one Miss Isabella Swan – are kicking up a bit of a ruckus out there, wanting to know where she is and to see her 'for themselves'," and he finger-quoted the last two words with emphasis.

I started to protest, but Jazz interrupted: "Allan can't talk them down, so I'll head on out there and see what I can do. Work mah southern magic," he drawled dramatically. "Before I do though, maybe we should do a little digging and verify the name of the young lady asleep in your arms?"

I nodded my agreement and gently untangled the strap on the small purse she had slung across her from under her hair and over her shoulder, then handed it over to Jazz. He eyed it warily, saying, "Normally I don't hold with unsanctioned rummaging in a lady's purse…" and trailed off, looking at me.

I waved my hand to indicate my strong desire he get on with it, and good friend that he is, he broke with a personal code of conduct and rummaged. It didn't take much time for him to produce her wallet, and an exclamation: "She doesn't even have any lipstick in here – maybe ol' Felix missed a high-schooler after all."

He then opened her wallet and plucked out the first ID: a Wellington College school ID with just her name – Isabella Swan, as predicted – and ID number. Next came the driver's license – voilà – she was from Minnesota (Minnesota? No wonder she was naïve and clueless) and officially legal, for all activities relevant here, as of today.

Her birthday. Well, that helped explain what she was doing in this place, so obviously not her normal environment. I'd bet a lot her friends dragged her out, the same friends that then neglected her, leaving her prey to the worst kind of predator. It was good Jasper would be the one interacting with them; I wouldn't have any kind words for them and doubted I could even manage civil ones.

"Now," Jasper said, "we need to clarify my goals in my coming interactions with Ms. Swan's friends. How, and when, will she be getting home?" he asked with an innuendo-laden stare.

I stared right back, refusing to acknowledge his insinuation of my desire for this girl. I couldn't and wouldn't hold it against him; normally I took unabashed full advantage of all situations in which a beautiful woman landed in my lap. But that occurrence had never been literal before, and there was nothing normal about this particular beautiful woman or my feelings for her. So even though I was certainly not going to take her to bed with me tonight, I was just as certainly not willing to part with her just yet.

So I said so. "There's absolutely no way I'm letting her go tonight with the sort of friends who would leave her alone and vulnerable like they did," I said emphatically, making my position crystal-clear. "You can phrase it as politely as you like."

I paused a moment to consider how one politely informs others that one is unapologetically carrying off their friend. "Perhaps emphasize the aftereffects of shock she's experiencing, and the ease with which I can obtain medical attention for her if she needs it," I suggested. "Or the staff I have available to monitor her while she sleeps tonight, in case she has flashbacks or wakes up afraid or needing some comfort." I didn't feel it necessary to add that any staff would be superfluous to my own oversight and presence.

I easily warmed up to the theme, glad to reflect on all the advantages my wealth and position could provide to the young woman still asleep in my arms. "Or the relative safety, privacy, and comfort of a limo ride home versus whatever form of public transportation they probably arrived on," I continued, "but the bottom line is she's coming home with me tonight. And as soon as possible."

Then, as I considered the pending logistics for transferring Isabella to a comfortable bed in my home, I came up with a hesitant thought I voiced aloud. "Maybe I should call Alice and ask her to find some nightclothes for Isabella?"

Thus I ended on a less certain note, for though Alice always gladly came through in emergencies, she would definitely be inquisitive and, what was worse, consider Isabella to be her own new possession if she was given the responsibility of dressing her. I was fairly certain that, much like a determined terrier with a rabbit in its jaws, she would not part easily with the affectionate little girl in my lap.

How did I now know Isabella was affectionate? She had over the course of my short speech to Jasper snuggled her head against my chest not once, but twice, and currently had one small hand fisted at my shoulder, holding on to my dress shirt with surprising strength.

I uncharacteristically – not usually being one to appreciate non-sexual gestures of affection, especially when such gestures mar my appearance – smiled down at the determined fist wreaking havoc on the pressed lines of my hand-tailored dress shirt, then looked up to see Jasper grinning broadly at me once more.

"Okay, I think I've got my marching orders," he said with a laugh. "And if I were you I wouldn't put off calling Alice; she'll find out about the lovely Miss Isabella soon enough anyhow, and then you'll be left explaining why you didn't call her straight away, and you know that wouldn't be particular fun."

I sighed my agreement and reached for the phone in my pocket while Jasper gave one last lascivious wink and left the office.

XxXxXx

I was so angry at myself I could hardly think straight. You just had to go out on the dance floor with Ben, you selfish, thoughtless girl, I scolded myself. Of course I had asked Bella if she minded, which Ben reminded me, but of course she said no – as if my kindest, gentlest friend would ever have said anything else. Which I reminded Ben, and he hung his head, the shame on his face mirroring I'm sure the shame on my own.

Lauren and Jessica weren't being any help at all. Both happily drunk, or perhaps more accurate in this case both drunkly happy, they were actually suggesting that Bella had found herself "her own sexy birthday present" in Jessica's slurred words and had left – Without telling us she was going? No way! – for a one-night stand with some handsome hunk of a man.

Certainly this is what they wanted for themselves, and perhaps if they'd held off on the alcohol a bit more they could have had it. As it was, the way they were behaving, loud and giggly and provocative, the worst caricatures of vapid drunk college girls, they would be left, appropriately, with the night's more drunk and less discriminating male leavings, if with anyone at all.

Normally, I would have gone into mother-hen mode with them right now and herded them into a taxi, inevitably having to tip extra out of my own pocket to make up for their vomit in the back seat. But I couldn't spare any worry for them right now with Bella missing.

I turned to Ben and said in a voice a little higher than usual, "Maybe I should check the ladies' room again?"

He grabbed my elbow and looked hard at me, willing me to calm down, and so I blinked the panicked tears back. "No, Ange, you've been in there twice and I've combed through everywhere else. I even stuck my head out the front door to see if she was getting some fresh air. We need to alert security now."

I nodded my head in agreement: this was one of the many things I loved about Ben. He was so good under pressure, although I knew he was feeling as worried about Bella as I was. "Maybe she got sick or something," he added half-heartedly, as we made our way to the bartender to ask for help.

The bar had been the first place we'd stopped when we realized Bella wasn't standing to the side of the dance floor where we'd left her, and after giving the bartender Bella's description he'd said he didn't think he'd served her that night but would keep an eye out for her. He was very reassuring, saying friends became separated all the time, and suggested the obvious. This included checking the ladies' room and on the sidewalk where a number of people had gone to smoke now that it was between sets.

Mercifully he didn't imply the other obvious solution: that she had left of her own volition with someone else. He didn't know Bella, so I knew he was just being tactful, but I was grateful nonetheless, because though her leaving without telling me was an impossibility, the idea that she had been taken away against her will was not and was also the source of my underlying terror.

Now we were back to the bar, 10 minutes later and much more panicked. The bartender must have seen that panic in our eyes because as he looked up at us after serving the last drink to a group of rowdy college guys, he immediately pressed something at his waist and started speaking into the headset he wore. "Mr. Whitlock," he said as he eyed us, "I've got a couple of patrons out here who have misplaced a friend. A young woman."

There was a pause as he listened to whomever Mr. Whitlock was say a few words, then he nodded and replied while looking at us for confirmation, "Yeah, they were by ten minutes ago to ask about her."

Another short pause, then the bartender picked up with, "Small, long-haired brunette, young-looking, pretty, brown eyes, right?" and he looked to Ben for confirmation, which would normally have made me mad in a feminist way but right then I couldn't have cared less.

When Ben nodded, the bartender continued, "Yeah, that's the description."

At what must have been a request from the person on the other end of the line, he asked Ben "Name?" And as evidence of the amount of worry he felt, my cool-headed Ben said "Ben Cheney."

Before the bartender had a chance to correct him, I spoke up with, "Bella. Her name is Isabella Swan, and she absolutely wouldn't leave here without telling us. Not under any circumstances."

Ben was looking embarrassed and I was starting to cry, so the surprisingly-sympathetic bartender – how he would manage to maintain any human compassion at all after dealing night in, night out with drunk, obnoxious, over-privileged college students I couldn't imagine – leaned over the bar towards us after passing on Bella's name and said, "Hey, the boss says he has a young woman in the back office that fits your friend's description. Had a bit of an incident with a creep trying to make out the side door with her, but she's fine. Mr. Whitlock will check in with her and get back to me when he knows for sure if she's who you're looking for. Have a seat, and I'll get you a couple of drinks. On the house."

But I was far too anxious about Bella to wait. I'd been negligent enough tonight, I wasn't going to wait another minute to know for certain if she was safe. Or not. "I'm sorry, sir," I said as politely as I could manage. The sir earned a raised eyebrow from the bartender. He wasn't much older than Ben and me, though he was considerably more muscular and intimidating with tattoos on his arms and piercings through his nose and one eyebrow. "But we just can't wait any longer. If that girl isn't Bella, we need to call the police."

That earned two raised eyebrows. I suppose most people wouldn't jump to calling the police 10 minutes after missing their friend in a packed nightclub, but most people weren't friends with Bella. "Couldn't we just stick our heads in the office, see for ourselves if it's her or not?"

Without comment, our kindly bartender relayed our request to the back office, and then after one more pause, this one kind of long, turned to tell us that Mr. Whitlock would be right out to talk with us.

XxXxXx

As I exited the office, closing the door behind me carefully so I shouldn't disturb the sweet young thing curled up in Eduardo's lap, I became aware of a grin so large splitting my face I must have looked like one right touched in the head. I quick got my face under control, assuming the passive, "no comment" look I had perfected in my business dealings, and in my poker playing.

Though I couldn't but smile again at thinking of poker, and the friend—no, the brother—I had left back in my office. Edward, almost always having the upper hand in business, and in life generally, was for once at a marked disadvantage while playing poker. He either looked normal, meaning aggressive as a starved shark in chum-filled water, or stressed, meaning angry as a stepped-on scorpion.

Looking normal meant he expected to win, winning being normal to Edward. Looking angry meant he was afraid he might lose, and our Edward HATES losing. So perhaps it was a little uncharitable of me to bait him so at our male-bonding events for his lack of a poker face, and certainly it was a little below the belt to be quite liberal with the whiskey in his glass on such occasions too. But to catch Edward A. Masen at a disadvantage… my oh my, can you blame me for enjoying it a bit?

Which was exactly why I was enjoying myself now. Our Edward, a king of the Eastern Seaboard, exalted young multi-, multi-, multi-millionaire poised for the sort of power known only to the sort of men born of great money and prestige, and skillful enough to make both grow greater every year, hell, every day… this creature of strength and will was melting by the minute over a mite of a girl, barely legal, and demonstrably unable to stand on her own two feet. Or even to stay awake more than 5 minutes altogether.

How in the world did such a one find her way to my nightclub? was the question on my mind as I approached Allan, waiting for me behind the bar down at the far end.

As I drew closer I noted an anxious pair, both looking as if they had just been told their mamas had passed on while their daddies had disinherited them in order to marry the waitstaff – or so I presumed, having been the child of the waitstaff and not privy to the anxieties of the upper crust until my scholarship to boarding school – and now staring fixedly at me.

I hadn't yet reached a conversational distance when the woman broke away from her companion's grip and rushed on up to me, getting much closer than these reserved northerners were surely accustomed to. "Please, may I check on the girl in your office? I need to see if it's Bella, and if it is, she must be really scared. The bartender said there was an altercation?" She got this all out faster than the bar fills up at last call, and believe me, that's fast.

"Whoa, now, ma'am," I drawled to the best of my considerable ability, "slow down a bit there." I've found that southern talk, especially sloooow southern talk, is a surefire way to disarm confrontation and put folks at ease. If it also tends to make the opposition underestimate me, well, that wouldn't be no fault of my own, now would it?

She was more nervous than a dam being led away from her foal, however, and she wasn't about to let up. I recognized a flash of gratitude within myself that little Miss Isabella had someone willing to be maternal over her, although something had gone amiss there to lead to the current situation. She went on, "I'm sorry, but I can't slow down, or wait, or talk about anything else until I see her for myself! Please, take me to Bella! Oh God, isn't it Bella back there? Oh God, Ben, it's someone else, and Bella-"

I interrupted her then, not wanting to see a lady panic. "Now, now, I do have your Miss Bella back in my office, and she's safe and sound; no need to worry."

"Oh, thank God! Thank you, Jesus! Thank you! Oh, Ben, isn't it wonderful?! She's OK! Can we see her please?"

"Well, now, about that… you see, she isn't by herself right now. She had a bit of a fright earlier, before you noticed she was missing, I presume," I couldn't help the bit of chastisement that echoed in that side comment, nor did I much want to, and they both wilted under it.

I continued, "And she almost ended up in the alley with a… disreputable type. My security staff took care of the fellow," this I said with pride… damn straight my security staff disposed of the scum.

Then to the point: "And my friend, Edward Masen," ah, good! We had recognition from the young man. This "Ben" startled at the name, his eyes wider now; must be a business major, or someone interested in local news. You couldn't escape the Masen name in the society pages if you tried.

"Well," I continued, drawing it out with some emphasis, hoping to get the message home to the boy at least that he was out of his league here and damn well better back on off, and take his girl along with him. "Edward, he took care of your friend. He's the one who spotted her, and stopped the man at first, and he's the one who got her back to a safe spot afterwards." I eyed the pair with no mercy, knowing I was highlighting all that they should have been doing themselves.

Then I decided there wasn't any harm in making nice, especially as it was the God's honest truth. So I added, "She seems to feel real comfortable with him. In fact, she's sleeping sound in his lap as we speak. And he's plenty pleased about that." I couldn't resist adding: "Which is a bit out of character, I must say."

Finally, I brought it on home, knowing there was not much ground I'd left on which any reasonable person might base an objection. "So seeing as the two of them are content, I recommend we just leave them to it. Edward is an honorable man, and is feeling most protective of your friend, so you can rest assured that he will see her home in style, probably sometime tomorrow after she's slept off tonight's scare."

Now for the finesse. "Meantime, why don't you let me buy you two a drink for your worries? I'd hate for you to leave my establishment on a sour note. Then I'll make sure you get a cab back home. It'll be ready when you are."

After her initial relief, the woman looked none too pleased with the news I'd given her, or at least she was puzzling over it. My guess was that Miss Bella had not often been found asleep in the laps of men. She tried to ask me more, had opened her mouth in fact, no doubt preparing to insist she could not be satisfied until her "own eyes" had assessed her friend.

But I had my own loyalty to worry over, and I was just preparing the politest repeat refusal possible when her beau made it unnecessary. "Angie, she's fine. If Edward Masen is taking care of her, she's in the best possible hands. He owns half this city, and I'm sure the other half owes him one way or another."

Just then he seemed to remember I'm Edward's friend and associate and he looked up at me, real fast, and started on making an apology. "Not that that is bad," he assured me. "I mean, he's a remarkable businessman, someone I've really admired. I even wrote a paper-" and this time I cut him off. "No worries, Mr. …, I'm sorry, my manners have failed me. I don't believe we've been properly introduced."

"Cheney. Ben Cheney," he said, with noticeable relief at my continuing easy friendliness, then added "and this is my girlfriend, Angela Weber."

I smiled at them both, shaking hands with the boy and lightly kissing the back of the girl's hand with a wink at her boyfriend after. I knew enough of northern college ladies of a certain ilk to figure I would have gotten myself an earful if I wasn't presumed a southern gentleman who didn't know any better. Mr. Cheney's answering nervous grin confirmed this thought.

"So, to return to your concerns, Mr. Cheney, Ms. Weber, Edward is a stellar businessman, but I was sincere when I called him a man of honor too. He is quite taken with your friend, and he surely won't rest until she's tucked in safe for the night, and then returned, in pristine [I emphasized the word and saw that the man, at least, caught my true meaning: virginal] condition tomorrow. She can tell you all about it then. How about we save those drinks for another night, and I call you a cab now?"

This last wasn't really a suggestion, and Allan, who had been keeping an eye on things from a discrete distance, responded immediately to the small gesture of my hand, walking on over to us and asking "What can I do for you, Mr. Whitlock, sir?"

"Call these nice customers a cab, would you please Allan, and ask the cab dispatcher to hurry it on up. I'm afraid they've had enough worry in these walls tonight and I'm sure would like to be out of them as soon as possible. Oh, and let's give them each a couple of drink vouchers for their next visit here."

"Yes, sir, will do," said Allan, who handed over the vouchers from behind the counter before moving off to the phone. Mercifully, the young man followed me as I turned and headed towards the main entrance, towing an obviously reluctant Ms. Weber behind him.

At the door, Mr. Cheney turned to me and said "Thank you so much, Mr. Whitlock. I'm sorry if we were any trouble to you tonight."

Ms. Weber looked at me blankly, definitely not ready to join in thanking me but hopefully prepared to leave quietly. I'd take that.

"No trouble at all, Mr. Cheney, Ms. Weber. I was glad to make your acquaintance, and look forward to seeing you both here again real soon." They nodded at my polite lies, we shook hands, and they turned – well, really the boy turned and dragged the girl with him – to exit, to my great relief.

XxXxXx

Edward tries to return Bella to her dorm the next day, because he assumes that's what she wants to happen and he's trying not to scare her off even though he's already making plans to stay in her life… including having his security people place her under surveillance, which it is clear is going to be tricky given the just-determined hesitancy of her college's administration to allow his security staff on campus without Isabella's parents' involvement. He's cynically calculating how big of a donation to the college's building fund he's going to have to make to get the tacit permission he's looking for in order to have the control over Isabella's well-being he now needs, as he watches her get more and more anxious the closer they get to her school.

As soon as Edward is certain of her increasing distress he asks her what is wrong, and with much coaxing Bella finally admits how miserable, overwhelmed and depressed she has been in college so far.

He listens intently, and when she's done talking and crying she lets out one last shuddering sigh, then takes a deep breath and smiles weakly at him. "Thanks for listening, Edward," she says genuinely. There's a brief pause before she says, "I feel much better now." She's trying to sound brave and certain, but it comes out squeaky and obviously forced.

Edward hasn't said a word, has just been staring intently at her, so she feels embarrassed and blushes, turning away to look out the window. She desperately tries to think of something to say, coming up with, "The leaves are so beautiful today. I think I'll go for a walk after I finish my English paper."

This is a bald-faced lie, because she is so far behind on the reading in her English class she won't be finishing the paper until late in the night if she's lucky, but she hopes it sounds confident and assured so that Edward will think she is those things too and leave her on a positive note instead of a pitiful one.

Bella's mind is in turmoil, protesting and grieving the thought of Edward dropping out of her life as quickly as he dropped into it, and her future prospects seem somehow even bleaker after the warmth, comfort and safety she has known - for the first time in her life - in the last 12 hours. She hears Edward give instructions to the driver over the intercom, but doesn't register what they are.

Bella is violently biting her bottom lip, trying desperately not to start crying again, when she is surprised by Edward unbuckling her seatbelt and grabbing her around the waist and under her legs. He slides her over to his side of the bench seat, and lifts her into his lap before re-fastening his seatbelt around them both.

She's now sideways in his lap again, head pressed against his chest, just like the night before. Also the same is Edward's hand rubbing and caressing, although this time he pays more attention to her hip and upper leg than to her arm, and when he moves to her back the pressure he applies is more forceful, more intimate, and less discrete about avoiding the outlines of her bra.

Indeed, when he starts pressing the heel of his hand firmly into her spine, moving up her back, he stops when he comes to where the bra is fastened, not wanting to dig the fastener into her skin. He murmurs "Let's get rid of that, shall we," as he slides his hand under the exposed back hem of her shirt and up, to deftly unfasten the bra and tug both ends to the sides. Then he returns to his ministrations on her back, this time working under her shirt.

She goes rigid when his hand makes contact with the bare skin of her back, but she relaxes into him again as the back rub resumes.

Edward's other hand is stroking her head, tucking her hair repeatedly behind her ear, and he is whispering to her, almost crooning, as she finally gives in to her sobs. "Shhhh, shhhh, Isabella baby, you're all right, I'm here. I'm here now, and I'm not going to let anything bad happen to you, ever again. Shhhh, shhhh, that's right baby. You're mine, baby girl. You're mine now. You have nothing to worry about. Just close your eyes, and let me take care of you. I'm taking you back home now, baby girl, and I'm never letting you go again."

"That's right," he keeps up, as he watches her eyelids blink close and feels her sobs slow into big, hiccupping sighs, "that's right, sweetheart. That's my good girl. Go to sleep now, and we'll talk when you wake. I'll be right here, angel, right here taking care of you."

He starts tapering off as her eyes stay closed and her breathing deepens, "That's right, baby. God, you are so beautiful. I can't believe how lucky I am I found you. I should send that Asshole a thank-you present," then he adds under his breath so she can't hear, "right after I kill him." Raising his voice just a little again, enough so half-asleep Bella could just make it out as she floats off on a warm cloud of affection-laced security once more, "No more worrying about jerks like him for you though, baby – you're mine."

And he leans down to kiss the top of her now-sleeping head and holds her even closer, overflowing with gratitude and contentment, watching out the window the return trip to his city home with the love of his life in his lap once more, and for good.