A/N: Thanks so much for all your wonderful thoughts! So glad you guys are enjoying this story. Again, it should be a short one, so…we'll see. ;)
Most characters belong to S. Meyer. The rest belong to me. All mistakes are also mine.
Chapter 2
Alice once asked me what it's like.
It's like…well, it's almost like when I was a graduate student at Mills College in Oakland. Mills College had one of the first MBA programs for women on the West Coast. As a result, the men would look at us as if we were a strange sort of parasite, one who wanted to force itself into the realm of butterflies, where it had no business being. A woman with an MBA? Preposterous.
Often, we female graduate students would receive snide, side comments as we walked down the streets with our heavy textbooks in hand. These "men" complained about whatever radicalism allowed us to leave the kitchen and enter a man's domain. They bemoaned the decline of McCarthyism and blamed this decline and our moral liberality on a Supreme Court which grew increasingly permissive. They spewed nonsense about 'dames having no need for brains' followed by raucous laughter as they patted one another on the back for their witty prose. When I congratulated these fellas on their ability to 'walk and rhyme at the same time,' the insults would deteriorate to suggestions on what I should be doing with my body rather than growing old as I pursued a man's education.
Somehow, after all that, I still ended up with Michael. But, I digress.
Anyway, in the course of those two years in that MBA program, I must've taken dozens of exams. Sometimes, I performed well. Sometimes, I didn't score as I would've hoped. Yet, every exam brought with it an opportunity to improve, to do better than the last; one minuscule change – a few words added or subtracted here, a box checked on or off there – and the grade would either spike or drop. Each change within those two years, no matter how small, had the potential to change my life if only I could figure out what changes, what shifts were required.
So, it's something like that except I have no idea how much time I have in which to accomplish the required change.
OOOOO
San Francisco: 1959
The mist swirled around him like a gauzy, white blanket. It ebbed and flowed around his frame like one of the whitewater waves from which he'd emerged. When the mist would wane, I'd glimpse his tall frame in dripping clothing; I'd marvel at the rich, copper hue to his damp, dark hair, the color of a submerged penny. Then, he was again enveloped in the vaporous sheath, as if its purpose was to keep the cool, bay air off of his wet skin. Only his eyes, two enigmatic emeralds, continuously shone through the mist.
After I thanked him for his assistance, he offered no reply. For an interminable moment, I stood across from that silent, inscrutable green gaze, with Michael's crumpled body stiff and silent on the ground between us.
Finally, the mist dispelled, and the man stepped over Michael's prone corpse. He took two steps toward me – a dangerously disheveled man with wild hair and dark stubble above a tall, powerful frame; a frame which halted when I took a step back.
"I'm not gonna hurt you." His whispered words quivered from the cold, a rough sound yet also soothing somehow.
"I know."
"Your cheek…" he gestured with his angular jaw, "it's swelling."
"I'll be fine. It's nothing that hasn't happened before."
The man's gaze tightened before he swept his eyes toward the darkness, where a little over a half-mile away, at the midpoint between us and Alcatraz, the helicopters' searchlights hovered. Their propellers echoed off the black waters and sent more mist swirling into the air. The Coast Guard's ships sounded their foghorns. The Rock's lighthouse beamed its massive and powerful light in a jumpy, three-hundred-sixty-degree circle around the bay, dizzying in its fervor. It illuminated everything from the Golden Gate to Marin County to Oakland and the Golden Gate's less popular sister – the Bay Bridge, all the way to our hidden little spot. Around and around and back it went while the helicopters scoured and the ships blew their horns and bullhorns amplified the hunters' desperation.
It was only a matter of time.
"They'll find you."
"They'll have to kill me because I'm not going back."
Still rough, his voice was no longer a whisper, and the finality with which he spoke the statement sent a chill racing down my spine.
"Those clothes are a dead give-away. You'll have to take…you'll have to take Michael's clothes."
The man's eyebrow quirked upward, and a slow grin formed on one half of his mouth.
"I was planning to, but I didn't think you'd want to stick around and watch."
At first, his movements were carefully controlled as if he feared having me finally scream. He stepped backward, again lifting his long legs over Michael's body, his dark emerald gaze on me the entire time. I held my ground, frozen in place as much by shock, I vaguely supposed, as by my fascination. Eyes still on me, the man knelt before Michael's pale face. After a handful of seconds, he tore his gaze away, and I released a long, ragged breath.
Silently, I watched the man swiftly lift and roll Michael's body this way and that to relieve him of the various pieces of his tux. First, his jacket then his vest.
Perhaps I should've been disturbed by his callous treatment of a corpse, even more by the fact that the corpse was once my lover. Perhaps that sort of emotional response would've been the normal one, and it would've done the trick enough for me to manage screams. Perhaps that's how the end result would've been different.
But I recalled the lack of care and respect Michael took with my body, and I carefully knelt at his other side, lifting my skirt to my thighs so as not to get it wet on the ground.
"You'll have to work quicker."
The man paused at Michael's shirt buttons and looked up at me, eyes wide and clearly shocked. But then that slow, lop-sided grin reappeared.
"You want to help?"
Apparently, he was merely taunting me, because when I reached for Michael's shiny, patent leather shoes, the man wrapped his fingers around my wrist.
A thousand and one stars exploded within me, and concurrently, outside of me. His breath hitched, and he swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing. It took a couple of moments for me to realize the outward explosion wasn't the stars at all, but rather the whir of an engine before it cut off as a boat pulled into this side of the bay.
The man blinked.
"When was the last time you were seen with him?"
"About twenty minutes ago, inside the supper club. I stepped out to have a look at the commotion. He followed me out a few minutes later and found me here, and…I guess you saw the rest."
"Yeah. Curious one, aren't you?" When I didn't reply, he snorted. "I don't want you touching any part of him. When the G-Men come questioning you, you say you stepped out of that supper club and never saw him again. Got it?"
Drawing in a succession of uneven breaths, I nodded. When the man reached for Michael's laces, I slipped my arms in between his arms. When I began undoing the top button to his wet, government-issued shirt, he froze and a shudder ran through him.
"What are you doing now?"
"We don't have time to waste," I said. "While you take off his things, I'll help you take off yours."
This time, he took both my wrists, his grip firmer than before as he pulled me toward him. Our faces met only inches apart over Michael's lifeless chest. Yet unlike the way Michael tended to grab and yank me, the man's constraint, though solid, was careful and controlled.
"Listen to me, dame: there is no we." As he hissed, his mouth rumbled so close to mine that I tasted his every word.
"Don't call me dame. My name is Bella."
Once more, his eyes narrowed in bemusement. "Bella," he breathed, his wet chest expanding and contracting under my hands, shadowed jaw tightening.
"Bella, walk away and don't look back. Forget you saw this. Forget you saw me," he bit through clenched teeth. "You walked out of that supper club, and you went home, and you never saw your poor Michael here again."
He offered me a cold and mocking smile, holding me locked in his intense gaze for what felt like a lifetime, his fingers still wrapped around my wrist.
Perhaps, had I obeyed and walked away then.
When I calmly returned to his buttons, his nostrils flared. Yet, he said nothing more as he released my wrists and allowed me to resume my duty as he resumed his.
With swift, surprisingly nimble fingers, I undid the man's shirt, button by button while he relieved Michael of the shoes and socks he no longer needed. When I reached the last button, I felt the man's stomach contract. But when I reached for his shoulders to pull off the soaked shirt, he pulled away.
The man met my eyes with a strange glare, yet he said nothing as he pulled off his shirt. The mist returned, gossamer and translucent as it swirled around his broad shoulders and brushed over his tight chest. When he stood and pulled down his bottoms, he wore nothing underneath…and like the mist, I stayed there, my vision dancing around him unflinchingly.
I reached for the pile of clothing on top of Michael and handed the slacks up to the naked man before me. "I can touch his clothes."
He snatched them wordlessly, avoiding my eyes, chest heaving furiously as he dressed, only meeting my eyes again when I spoke my next words.
"The car keys are in his jacket pocket."
Eyes on me, he finished dressing, breaking away when he donned the socks, groaning as he forced his feet into Michael's shoes and tied the laces. He straightened and raked his damp hair with his fingers. The final product was surprisingly striking if one didn't look too closely at the somewhat wrinkled clothing, at the shorter than suitable length of his pants, and at the snugness around his shoulders.
And all the while, Michael laid between us in nothing more than his underwear; even those were swiftly removed by the man, but not to be worn. He took Michael's underwear and his own wet inmate's uniform and bunched them together. Then, the man hefted Michael's naked body over his shoulder as easily as if he carried a child. He patted the lapel pocket, and the keys to Michael's Chevrolet convertible jingled.
In the near distance, the helicopters continued their search, and another boat cut its engine. All the while, I sat there, watching.
"What are you doing?" I breathed.
The man in Michael's tux stopped his frenzied movements and looked down at me.
"What was he to you?"
"He was my boss. I was his secretary. No one else would hire me, because I was overqualified. He hired me, told me he loved me, and then took credit for all my work. We were…we were supposed to get married in the spring."
He snorted. "Congratulations."
Perhaps if I would've taken it as an insult toward me, but the furious sneer on his face wasn't for me.
"So, what are you doing?"
"They'll be lookin' for a body in the water, and while your poor fiancé is shorter and lighter, he should make a good distraction for a bit."
And yet, another point at which I may have been able to change things.
With a sigh, as if he'd ended some sort of internal debate, the man held out his free hand.
"Let's go."
OOOOO
Once again, my fellow San Franciscans, we interrupt your regularly scheduled programming for an urgent alert from the California Highway Patrol. There has been a prison break from Alcatraz. A short while ago this evening, an inmate by the name of Edward Cullen managed the heretofore believed unmanageable feat of breaking out of The Rock. The manner of his escape is still unknown, but as we speak, the FBI, the U.S. Coast Guard, the California Highway Patrol, Sheriff's Deputies, and local police are all on a massive manhunt for this escaped criminal. Warden Olin Blackwell has warned all authorities that this inmate has a superior IQ, which makes him highly dangerous.
While the authorities are almost positive that Edward Cullen must have drowned in the treacherous waters around Alcatraz, for sharks, jagged rocks and lethal tides surround the island, they are nevertheless asking that all San Franciscans heed the utmost caution this Halloween eve. Forego the evening's trick-or-treating, bring your children indoors, and hug them tightly to you. Keep your celebrations indoors and keep all strangers out. Alert the authorities if you see an unknown tall, dark-haired man, who appears to be in his late twenties, lurking about. Most of all, do not leave your premises until word emerges that Edward Cullen has surely and deservedly either drowned or been apprehended.
I shut off the car radio and lifted my gaze to the man, to the dangerous, escaped inmate in Michael's tux. He drove carefully – not too slowly and not too fast, nothing to attract the attention of the patrol cars passing us, their lights in a frenzy; sirens blaring.
Perhaps if I would've banged on my window and screamed for help.
Instead, I reached out and rested a hand on his forearm.
The dangerous inmate's breath hitched almost imperceptibly, but I was watching him too closely to miss it. With a side-long glance, he offered me one of his crooked grins.
"Pleased to meet you."
Then, with a snort, he turned back to the windshield.
"Edward…where are we going?"
A/N: Thoughts?
I want to thank the lovely Ipsita Chaudhuri for the GORGEOUS banner she created for this story. I'm amazed by how perfectly she captured the mood, from Edward to the mist and to the infamous Rock. Love you hard, girlie. :)
Facebook: Stories by PattyRose
Twitter: PattyRosa817
A couple of songs you may want to listen to while reading this story. They're hauntingly gorgeous covers of songs that are already classics, but these covers…well, they fit the mood pretty damn perfectly:
Sympathy for the Devil by Jane's Addiction
Everybody Wants to Rule the World by Lorde
Mad World by Michael Andrews.
For What It's Worth by Malia J
"See" you soon. :)
