Chapter 8 - A Few Hard Men

BPOV


For one millisecond, I have something in common with Edward Cullen. I flash my eyes at him, and he looks back at me like a startled rabbit, mortification mirrored in our expressions.

I daren't look at my dad's face, but Edward hazards a glance and has the decency to look embarrassed, which lands him a point from me, taking him out of double negatives for the first time.

"Bella, what on earth?" Dad's eyes are like saucers as he looks between Naked Norks and Edward before turning to glare at me. But the cogs start to whirl and the pieces of this fucked up, ludicrous puzzle fall into place. I see the realization dawn on his face like a slow-mo action shot, his brow shoots into his quiff then down to his suede shoes.

"Umm." He clears his throat, rubbing his mouth with his hand. "What's the problem with the car?"

The change of subject lets us off the hook, and we all exhale in relief. I don't want to explain how I know Edward, and I sure as shit don't want Dad to explain.

"She won't start, and I need to be at work about ten minutes ago." I wave in the direction of Bettie. As soon as Dad turns toward her, I kick Edward's sneaker, nodding at our nude friend who's watching my dad with a predatory stare worthy of a starved cat stalking a mouse. He gets the message and ushers her back into the house. I hope to hell he stays in there, but it seems he's trying to torture me, because he bounds back outside and stands by my side, ignoring the death glare I send his way.

We all remain silent for the few minutes. Dad's head disappears in the trunk, but I can feel Edward's eyes burning into my cheek like a laser. I about to tell him to fuck off when Dad announces Bettie is shot to shit, and it's going to take him a while to get her going. It's like she heard my threats and is making my life hell on purpose.

"What am I supposed to do? I'm already late. El will kick my ass." I cover my face with my hands and start walking back and forth, muttering curses.

"I can drop you off," Edward interrupts.

"No!" Dad and I shout at exactly the same time.

"What? I haven't been drinking." He holds his hands up, and I can't contain the snort that comes out. As if that's what's worrying my dad.

"I could drive your car, Dad." I look at the Roadster longingly, thinking maybe this is finally my chance.

"Seriously, Bella?" He shakes his head and laughs as if told him I wanted to fly to the moon.

"I can drive Bella," Edward repeats, as if in the thirty seconds that have passed Dad will have forgotten he's a notorious porn star.

"You have no car." I fold my arms, impressed with my own quick thinking.

"I can drive Jasper's." He challenges me with a quirked eyebrow. Damn him.

"Jasper can drive her." Dad all but growls, and I fight back the urge to stick my tongue out at Edward.

He laughs but pulls his phone out of his pocket, presumably calling the man himself. A minute later, Jasper emerges from the front door. His snorkel's gone, but he's now wearing flippers. "You rang, Bunny?" he slurs.

Before I can process Edward is Jasper's bunny, and all possible connotations of that revelation, I watch as he awkwardly maneuvers to the edge of the steps, lifting his legs up high to gain adequate space for his neon yellow flippers. He manages one step before he trips and tumbles into a large bush edging the stairs.

"For the love of all things holy!" Dad cries, and I hear a metallic clang, which was possibly him banging his head against Bettie's hood. He emits the longest sigh I've ever heard. "You can give her a ride, Edward, but … a ride is all. Got it?"

"Got it. Just a ride." Edward's smug tone and the smile pulling at his lips make me want to smack him. Dad's oblivious to the fact he's just given Dirk Diggler an invite to bone his daughter.

I groan, tipping my head up to the dark skies, "Give me strength." I whisper.

Edward pulls Jasper out of the prickly bush and fishes the keys from his pocket. He presses the button and a light flashes down the drive. A fizz of giddiness builds when I think I spot the unmistakable trunk of a Mustang. I barely say goodbye to Dad before running to touch her, running my hands over her charcoal grey paintwork. I think I'm in love, until I walk around the front and scream.

Edward runs to my side like a knight in shining armor or Throbbin' Hood, which incidentally, is one of the movies I've … heard … he won an award for.

"What the fuck is that?" I point to the red and orange flames licking across the hood of this poor, poor car. It's sacrilege, and I want to cry.

"Jesus, Fluff, don't scare me like that." Edward climbs in the driver side, oblivious to my distress. I take a moment to compose myself before sliding in the passenger seat, sitting as far away from him as I can.

"Don't you dare call me that." I lower my voice to as menacing a growl as I can manage. It's not very effective, only giving him a pained look on his face as he shifts position in his seat. I need to work on my "don't fuck with me voice".

He starts the engine, and I'm assaulted in every single one of my senses. Club Tropicana blasts out of the speakers, pina colada flavored air freshener gusts out of the air vents, and the inside of the car glows with electric blue light. My jaw drops to the floor. I feel like I'm witnessing a massacre.

Edward turns the music and the lights off and mumbles an apology.

"You and Jasper are going to hell."

He barks out a laugh. "Oh, I know. I've got a seat next to the devil himself."

Ah yes, the porn. I bite my lip hard to hold in my snark and in the vain hope the pain will distract me from the images of him naked and sweaty, pounding orgasm after orgasm out of his co-stars. I'm too hot.

I wind down the window and stick my face out into the breeze.

"So, where are we heading?" Edward asks.

"Purple Pussycat."

He starts choking and I'm forced to finally look at him in case I need to perform a Heimlich Maneuver, but he recovers quickly. "You work at the Pussy?"

I roll my eyes at him. "Yes." He starts shifting in his seat again. I'm not sure why, these seats are a dream, or they would be if they weren't warming up my ass. Who the hell has heated seats in California? Oh, yes … tasteless porn stars.

Edward looks in pain again, and I feel a slight flicker of concern—for myself. I don't need him to pass out behind the wheel. "I'm not a dancer, or at least, only on rare occasions."

I root around in my bag for my braces and bowtie, the icing on the cake for my uniform at LA's premier Burlesque club. I seem to have accidentally switched on his mute button, and I'm not about to turn him back on. I set about fastening the bow tie around my neck, and the braces to my shorts, twisting the bottom of my blouse into a knot.

I flip down the visor, and after getting over the fright of thinking the ten packets of Magnum XL that fall on my lap are some kind of giant insect —I slick on my red lipstick.

Edward's odd behavior is starting to worry me, so I decide to break the uncomfortable silence. "You don't drink?"

"No, I do drink."

"Oh, but you weren't drinking tonight … at a party?"

"Umm … nope."

He is being so weird. "Why? Don't want it to affect your performance?"

I snort, but he doesn't laugh. "Oh God, I should just shut up. It's not like you have any problems in that area," I blurt out, and immediately want to slap myself in the face. Why am I so obsessed with his cock?

He mumbles something and pulls the car in a space outside the Purple Pussycat.

I don't waste any time getting out. Firstly, because he's oozing sex and that's just no good for me, and secondly, because I'd rather die than let anyone see me in this car. But, either I'm a glutton for punishment or an addict to Edward, because I lean back in. "What did you say?"

He drags his teeth over his bottom lip and turns his heavy lust-lidded eyes on me, and I feel it right between my thighs. "I said, I don't have a problem when I'm around you. I'm so fucking hard right now, I could drill through a metal door. You're like my own personal brand of Viagra."

I shoot straight up, cracking my head on the door frame. "Owww fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck." My body reacts to his words, heating up before my mind realizes what he said. When it gets with the program, I huff and slam the door, stalking into work on a mission to find a freezer to stick my head into and then a quiet room to lock myself in. My cheeks are on fire and the throb between my legs isn't going to go away on its own.

I hear a groan from the open window on the driver's side. "She's gonna fucking kill me."

"That would solve a lot, Bunny!" I shout over my shoulder.

"Fucking Fluff." Is the last thing I hear as the tires screech and the vandalized car disappears into the night.

"Fucking Bunny." Why does that all of a sudden seem like a good idea?


A/N Thanks to A-Jasper-For-Me and Grnidgirl for polishing our words.

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