A/N: Thanks to weepwah for her knowledge of all things grammatical
Disclaimer: Not mine
I believe in you and me
I'm coming to find you
If it takes me all night
Wrong until you make it right
-The Killers
It was a long drive back to Bend. She'd made this drive a million times but this was the longest three hour trip down the mountain she could remember. She was trapped in a moving car, just like her feelings were held captive within her chest. She did not have the freedom to run screaming. She did not have the liberty to sob and shake. All she could do was stew and mourn in the confines of her own skin as Rose drove, oblivious beside her. She didn't want Rose to pick up on her despair so she put on her brave face and just concentrated on getting home. One hour down, two to go. She still had her fictional Edward. That's all she ever had. Two hours down, one to go. Having her fictional Edward was all she would ever have and that would just have to be enough somehow.
It was so late when they got back that Rose made herself at home in the guest bedroom. The three hours had numbed Bella to the point where the need to scream and sob had passed. She was almost catatonic when she walked into the kitchen to get a glass of water and scowled at the un-opened vibrator package mocking her on the kitchen counter. She needed emotional release right now, not physical release. She walked past the brown package and went straight to her writing desk. She was physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausted, yet she was compelled to open her notebook. She was separated from Edward. She could never have him. Her head felt heavy, as did the weight in her heart. She fell asleep at some point between the pages.
She sees her reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirrored wall facing her. She's never been here before, but it feels familiar. The room is dimly lit, and she is alone. It is not a small space, but has an intimate feel. The walls are quilted blood red leather, and there is a solitary ebony chair in the middle of the room. She walked to it and brushed her fingers over the high back. There is a private bar in the corner. She walks over and pours herself three fingers of whiskey. It burned going down. She'd never much cared for the stuff and wondered why she chose to pour it when unexpectedly she wasn't alone. There he stood opposite her. Somehow the room had doubled in size, and the mirror was gone. It was then that she realized the mirror was never a true mirror, but a crystal glass divider that only appeared dark before the light was turned on in the adjacent room. The room he is in is identical to hers. She knows where she is suddenly and wondered where all the people were. They are in a trendy spot downtown where dancers usually danced in these rooms for the crowds below, but the dancers were always backlit so you could only see their silhouette as the music thumped. But the club is empty and it is silent.
He is painfully beautiful.
The sexiest man she'd ever seen. Just looking at him made her feel alive.His bronze hair is tousled and he is looking at her curiously, as if he's just as surprised to be here as she is. She takes a step closer to him and a low, rhythmic music starts but she can't localize where the music is coming from. It seemed to be coming from within. Portishead. He looks at her through the glass and rakes her body with his eyes. Up until this moment she was unaware of what she was wearing. She looks down and sees she is in a black mini-dress and heels. It's quite flattering, and she's taken aback. She doesn't remember owning anything like it. He begins to unbutton his black shirt very slowly never breaking contact with her eyes, and slips it off his shoulders. She wasn't aware that she had unzipped her dress until she felt the slight chill of the air hitting her back. He removes his shirt at the same moment she steps out of her dress. She has matching black lingerie on underneath but he does not look at what has been revealed, nor does she. Their eyes are locked. Again, very slowly he moves towards her. She feels the magnetic pull and her feet carry themselves forward on their own accord. They are standing an inch apart. He lifts a hand up to cup her face but stops short and ghosts his fingers over her collarbone, and down the side of her arm, never actually making contact with her skin. It doesn't matter. She feels it. And goose bumps erupt in the wake of his almost touches.His breathing is heavier, his eyes more intense, black with desire, and this time his hand ghosts over her throat, at an achingly slow pace down between her breasts. He pauses here, her nipples tighten but he's still not touching her. Why won't he touch her? His path continues down to her navel and then stops at the top of her panties. His fingers are millimeters away from her skin. She could feel the tickle of the lace against her stomach and got another round of goosebumps, annoyed by the fabric covering her. How could she feel a touch that wasn't there? Why won't he close the distance and touch her? His eyes were on fire. She leaned in to place an open mouth kiss on his chest and was surprised when her vision clouded. Her hot breath fogged up the glass and only then did she remember there was a barrier between them. Instead of using his fingers he used his mouth to trace a trail from her shoulder to her breast, and down to her hip bone. All the while leaving fogged up marks on the glass. She knew she was imagining it but she could feel the heat of his breath through the glass on her skin. He rose so their eyes were level again and mouthed, "Come here." There was nothing she wanted more. She attempted a step forward only to jam the toe of her shoe into the glass. Her brow furrowed in confusion and she lifted her hands to take his hand in hers only to bump her knuckles into the unyielding crystal. Her confusion quickly turned to panic and she splayed her palms flat on the glass and began pounding, trying to get through to the other side. He stared back at her with an expressionless gaze and repeated, "Come here."
"I can't! I can't! The wall… I can't get to you!" she shouted as she continued to desperately pound her palms into the glass.
"I CAN'T! I CAN'T!"
"Shhh… Bella! It's ok. Calm down."
"I CAN'T HAVE HIM! I CAN'T HAVE HIM!"
"Shhh… you were having a bad dream."
Rose was laying beside Bella smoothing down her hair.
"It's okay Bella. You're okay," Rose said in a calming voice.
Bella looked around. She was in her bedroom and her notebook was on the floor. The clock on the nightstand read 3:05am. She remembered her dream. She couldn't reach Edward. She couldn't have him. Bella became aware of the heaviness of her heart again and tried to sooth it with a few deep breaths.
"Sorry I woke you Rose. Thanks for coming in. I'll be ok."
"You're a horrible liar, Bella. Tell me what's going on."
Bella considered whether or not to tell Rose about what she saw at the bookstore. Edward, with his son. It seemed that lately crappy news was all she had to tell, and she didn't want to unload more on Rose than she already had. Rose had heard all about how Jasper wasn't being husband of the year. Then during the divorce, Rose was there to cheer her up. And she was also there during the ensuing depression. Bella couldn't bring herself to, in the middle of the night, tell Rose the reason for her despair. It could wait. Rose would roll her eyes and say, "That's what friends are for," but Bella knew their relationship had been one-sided during this last year and felt like holding her tongue this once.
"It was just a bad dream Rose. Thanks for checking on me."
Rose left the room with a worried expression on her face and shut the door.
Bella picked up her notebook and put it on the writing desk so she wouldn't trip on it in the morning. Of course she wasn't ok. She was thankful Rose decided not to press her on it. She felt for the first time in months the unmistakable signs of depression creeping in. The familiar weight of it. And it was easy to let it in and wash over her. So much easier than fighting. So she surrendered to the darkness.
The minutes turned into hours and the hours into days. Things were… bad again. It was now Saturday morning, a full seven days after the book signing, and Bella was on the kitchen floor staring at her notebook. That stupid little notebook. She should pick herself up off the floor and eat. Or shower. Or both. She should also start working again but that thought depressed her more. She wasn't ready to give up on her personal fantasy yet. She began sobbing. She'd been here before, so many times, that she intuitively knew there would be some small relief when the tears were out. So she allowed it. As shitty as it felt to not be able to stop crying, it created a numbness once the tears dried out. And in a depression, numbness equated to peace and calm, even if it was accompanied by hopelessness. When her stomach hurt from crying so hard, she sat up. And there it was. The last sniffle, the last shaky breath. The calm. She was done crying and she felt some fight. She went into the bathroom and splashed cool water on her face, welcoming the contrast of heated skin and cool wet. She patted her face dry and decided she would do one thing for herself today. She would go to the trail. She needed to breathe the pine-scented air and hear the rush of the rapids. She needed to be reminded that she fell in love with the river before the idea of him. It was her place, her sanctuary, and it was a healing place. She didn't bother with a shower or anything else, she just left with her notebook and headed to the only place she could think of to ease her pain.
EPOV
The sight of her makes his heart ache. For two reasons. First of all, she looks miserable, and he wants to go to her and wrap her in his arms and make her eyes spark again. Secondly, he aches selfishly because he knows she can never be his. The "show her" plan was lying dormant in the depths of his heart.
She is sitting underneath the bridge again, where he first saw her so many months ago. Her spark is gone. Her eyes look dead and flat. She slams her notebook shut and drops her head back against the steel beam of the bridge. He wonders if she is fighting with Rose. He cares more about this than he should. He tried to tell himself that it didn't matter if she was fighting with Rose because it didn't change anything. Whether she was a lesbian or bi, or straight, it didn't matter, she was in a relationship. But the truth was, her happiness mattered to him because he needed her. When did that happen? When did he start needing her? Somewhere along the way in the last three months his jogging routine had been thrown off course not only because of her intoxicating presence, but because he relied on her smile, her warmth to warm his smile, to warm his soul. If her spark was gone, his was too. He needed her light to guide him. Only a fool would give another person so much power. He relied on her too much to put the hitch in his stride. Just by her mere presence. You have to make yourself happy, he knew that. You can't rely on anyone else to do that for you; it's dangerous to do so. It's been a long time since he thought of what would make him happy. She would make you happy. Shit! Around in circles again. His brain was stuck on her. Edward up to this point had relied on his brain heavily. It got him through school, scholarships, a coveted post-doc position, and he was very successful in his field. For the first time he wanted nothing more than to sever his brain from his body.
He looks up at her again, her head still resting on the wall, with her eyes shut. Even in her despair she is so beautiful. She lifts her head, wipes a tear from her cheek and clutches her notebook to her chest. She stands, stretches, and makes her way back to the path. He watched her leave and was ready to make his way back to the path himself when something caught his eye. A piece of notebook paper that must have fallen out when she slammed her notebook shut was now trapped in a sagebrush. He was on the other side of the river but only a quarter of a mile from the footbridge. He considered what may be written on that page and realized he had no clue. He felt like someone just told him that he was going to be opening Pandora's box but instead of unleashing destruction, he would be unlocking all the answers he longed for. He felt the adrenaline rush vibrate through his body. If there was a God, that piece of notebook paper would still be there after he ran like hell through the brush to get it.
He crossed the bridge in what had to have been his personal best time and ran through the brush until he saw the solitary page whipping back and forth in the breeze. He freed it from its confines, and with shaky hands, kneeled on his haunches and began to read…
My body was quivering with the need for release and I knew Edward could feel I was close. He wrapped his arms around my torso and one hand found my clit while the other pinched my nipple. The force of his orgasm rocked me into my own. His teeth still digging into my shoulder, his body falling limp against mine, we both gasped for breath and let the water from the shower run cold. He pulled out of me gently and rested his chin on my shoulder and asked,
"Bella, when will I see you again?"
Her words went straight to his cock. Then a moment later, his brain. In this moment, he was very happy to have his brain intact because it was processing a mile a minute. In his eagerness to solve the mystery that was Bella, he was never able to draw any conclusions about what Bella might be writing. Always asking the question, always shooting entirely in the dark. She could be writing about anything. Any guesses of his would have been futile and always knowing that, he never tried to figure it out; he had nothing to go on. Nothing. Well, now he had something. Writing erotica would explain why she bit down on her lip and squirmed on the picnic bench sometimes. He was at this moment, adjusting himself at the thought of all the times he remembered Bella on the picnic bench. Bella imagining herself being sexually satisfied. This piece of the puzzle made sense, so he tucked it away and out of mind.
He then allowed his brain to tackle the other two parts of the puzzle, the most confusing. The object of her fantasies was not a woman, as he would have expected, but a man. What did this mean? Could he have misinterpreted the interchange between her and Rose at the book signing? It wouldn't be the first time he got something wrong. He tried to remember their exact dialogue, but all he could recall was being so distraught that he didn't hear how their conversation ended. There was definitely a possibility he misjudged their friendship. Oh shit. He was allowing himself to hope as he considered the final piece of the puzzle. He looked down at the page and read again…
My body was quivering with the need for release and I knew Edward could feel I was close.
The man who fulfilled Bella's fantasies on the page shared his name. Could this be a coincidence? He juggled the puzzle pieces in his fingers, twisting them, trying them in different places. Caught up in analysis, he sat on the rocky earth for minutes before moving. Could it be that she wanted him like he wanted her? He thought back on the few times they had met. He remembered the electric shock of her touch and her warm smile when they shook hands. Maybe he had reason to hope. More than maybe. Confidence is a tricky thing, and Edward was a guarded optimist. He gave himself permission to let his guard fall and believe she was writing this with him in mind. The more he considered it, the more justified he felt in believing it to be true. Her use of his name was not a coincidence. He folded the piece of paper, put it in his pocket, and paused, smiling up at the Central Oregon mountain skyline.
The "show her" plan was back into effect.
A/N: I am working on the next chapter and it is already TWICE as long as most of my other chapters. Please review and tell me what you think:)
