Determined to have more than a single oneshot for this round! And this oneshot equals success, hehe. Endless thanks to Cherolyn and Lisa for prereading and fixing and just being overall lovely.
I don't own Twilight, but I own this.
The Twilight Twenty-Five
thetwilight25 dot com
Prompt: 25 – If at first you don't succeed, try, try again.
Pen Name: IcelandGirl812
Pairing/Character(s): Edward/Bella
Rating: M (cause... language.)
25.
My fingers tap away swiftly on the keys, moving on instinct and habit, without me having to think about which to hit. My nails are painted a bright red, but they're cut short for exactly this reason. The fast rhythm of my fingers and the accompanying sound is both soothing and energizing.
I'm close. I know I'm close.
I've lost track of how many of their firewalls I've gotten through, but I know I'm edging ever closer. I have to be.
My phone rings from its place beside me on the desk. Absently, I flick my wrist over to answer it.
"Hello?" I say into the microphone of the headset I'm wearing. Efficiency matters here, after all. Even seconds count, and I can't spare the hand it would take to hold my phone, either.
A lilting, smirking voice greets me, and I freeze—from my fingers to my blood.
"'Lo, darling."
I curse myself for not checking the ID before answering, although I know it wouldn't have shown anything to indicate who was really calling. Not with him.
"I always loved your stubborn streak." His voice is something unidentifiable, possibly British, Irish, Scottish, any number of possibilities. That's what I hate most about it, that it's intriguing and fascinating.
And, fuck, sexy as hell.
A faceless, bodiless voice had never been sexy until him, until 'Cullensly'.
Damn him.
"How many tries does this make it?" he continues.
"Five," I grind out, my fingers still frozen above my keyboard.
"Oh now, I think it's more like nine, Cinder, don't you?"
I ignore that. "How did you get this number?"
"That's for me to know."
"I'm going to find out."
"Oh, I'm counting on it." The smirk in his voice grows more pronounced. "Come find me, babe."
The lines goes dead just as code starts flowing rapidly across my screen and all the progress I'd made fades to void.
I grab the closest thing, a soda can, and hurl it at the wall. It doesn't make a satisfying noise at all, but my scream does. I pull the headset off my head a little too roughly and drop it on my desk; I'm lucky it doesn't break.
I imagine his voice, him laughing at me, and kick my chair.
"Fuck!" In the heat of my raging moment, I'd forgotten I was barefoot and now my foot is throbbing.
Just another thing I can put on his head.
I'd like to put a price on his head.
The idea is charming, but I know it's only a product of my anger. I have a wee bit of an anger issue, which is how I got into computers in the first place. One therapist had tried simulations and other computerized techniques, and I'd been hooked ever since.
As my temper begins to fade, my brain kicks back in.
How could he have found my number? I'm careful. Overly careful. Paranoid-careful.
I pick up my phone, taking a shot in the dark. Sure enough, there's a record of his call in my log, not just an unknown.
Sitting back down, I start to formulate a plan. It's a half-assed plan, but it's all I have right now.
I put my headset back on and hit send on the number.
It rings three times before he answers.
"If this is your way to try and find me, darling, you're gonna have to do better than that."
Every time we've ever talked, he's started out with 'darling' before going to 'babe'. It's never failed.
I try to summon some annoyance at that, and at the fact that I recognize it, too.
"Do you think I can't find you this way?"
"I think you're not stupid. I think you know probably every single one of the measures I've implemented to keep this number untraceable."
I narrow my eyes at thin air. "And I think you'd know I'd have the same measures to keep my number hidden."
"Ahhh." I picture the man I've imagined to go with his voice—dark, dark hair, blue eyes, sharp features, rangy body—leaning back in a desk chair, folding his arms behind his head. "So are you trying some kind of reverse to get me to give up my secrets?"
It's quiet a beat. I don't know if he expects me to answer, but I don't. I'm not giving up any of my own secrets, or my plans, to him.
His voice drops, lower and rougher. "I'm not giving all my secrets to you, babe."
"I wouldn't want you to."
"Mmm, I bet you wouldn't."
I pause, lick my lips and try to find some vulnerable hesitance in my voice. "Maybe I just wanted to hear your voice."
"Did you?"
"And if I did?" I'm trying to add a little breathiness in my voice, a little more femininity. Flirting.
He laughs, and it's the same sound I'd imagined earlier. Except maybe it's a little more pleasant than that. "I'd have to call bullshit on you."
"You don't think I'd want to hear your voice?"
"Oh no," his voice lowers again, "I think you would."
"But?" I'm impatient for him to get to his point, and aiming to hide that with a layer shyness in my voice.
"But I don't think you'd have the guts to say it out loud."
This time my pause is not orchestrated and not part of my plan.
"What?" I say it slow, over-articulating the word, attempting to control my anger and stop my teeth from grinding.
"Ooh, hit a nerve, did I?" The smirk is back in his voice.
"You think I'm some kind of coward?"
"I think you have plenty of guts to try and hack my system, and I think you're good. I just think I'm better."
My hands are curled around the arms of my chair; they're starting to ache from the fierce grip. "You—"
"And I think I like getting you riled up."
I reel in my anger, let it morph into cold steel in my voice. "I don't know what kind of game you think you're playing, but—"
He interrupts again, cutting me off neatly. "Just the game you know we both enjoy."
I start to speak, but numbers and letters pop onto my computer screen, startling me.
"I'll never get tired of your determination, so you're welcome to try again at getting past my walls." There's a faint sound, like he's shifting in his seat. "But, if you're bored, try this."
More numbers and letters join the first.
"Come find me, Cinder. I'll be waiting for you."
The connection goes dead, just like before and just like always when it comes to 'Cullensly'. The numbers and letters remain, a stark contrast standing out against the backdrop of my screen. I stare at them, concentrating, studying, analyzing.
Coordinates?
