Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns her characters of her twilight series, I'm just playing with them.

Chapter 2: NEW HOME

I had never been fostered by a single parent before. And if that wasn't new enough, he was a cop.

A cop.

My life was about to get a whole lot more strict.

I was nervous getting off the plane, and especially nervous when no one came to pick me up.

"Maim, can I help you find something?" A woman with a security vest asked me after watching me stare into space for fifteen minutes straight.

I pulled my military bag tighter around my shoulder. "Ugh, no—thanks, ugh, though."

A moment after, a tall man with an intimidating gun on his hip rushed into the entrance, and I knew it was him immediately when he ran up to the control panel and stared at the screen for flight drop-offs. He was flustered, and for some reason, his disorganization gave me hope. Maybe there was a God after all.

After gazing at him for a moment longer, he finally turned his head and looked at me with a question mark spreading across his face. But somehow, he knew the little lost girl was now his lost case, and that's probably why he walked up to me and asked me point blank, "Bella?"

I sighed. "Yup."

"I'm Charlie," he said, exhaling after. "Sorry I'm late. I was on a call."

"You're a cop." The evidence wasn't fabricated. He was a legit, gun holding cop. I was screwed. He had the intimidation factor down to the nines—chest out, shoulders square, back straight—and the moustache was there to make him even more of a cliché. And then there was me, poor little Bella, shrivelled up in her beaten down body, beaten in shoes, and broken in "hand-me-overs", as I never stayed in one place long enough to receive hand-me-downs.

"No, I'm Chief of police," he informed me with a tone I already hated.

"A cop."

"A police officer."

"Is there a difference?"

"That's enough questions."

"You're supposed to ask questions to get to know each other," I said lamely, already seeing the red behind his eyes. After ten seconds, I had already figured out his weak point—listening to twat talk.

"That's not how I operate—this your only bag?" He asked, pointing the one over my shoulder. He was all business.

"Yup."

"Yes?"

"Yeah."

"Yes?"

"Yes," I said through gritted teeth.

"Thank you."

"No problem."

"You're welcome, you mean."

"No."

"Yes."

"Fine, you're welcome."

He held out his hand. "Let me get that bag for you."

I shook my head. "I got it, thank you."

"I insist," he said, touching the strap.

I pulled away that time, a glare forming on my bruised face.

He gave up. "Fine. You're obviously not used to be taken care of." His eyes lingered on the cut near my lip.

"Yup."

He didn't correct me. Instead, he headed towards the doors, and I followed behind. Hopefully he wasn't always going to be two steps ahead of me.

Outside, rain came down in sheets, and then he dropped his keys in a puddle, leaving us out in the open even longer. I stared blankly into the distance, where after thirty meters of pavement, the tallest green trees started to take over.

Forks, Washington—I hated it already.

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