Ch.9 Irreplaceable Trust
Beta: Stacyo72 and maxandmo
Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. No copyright infringement is intended.
A/N at end of chapter, just trust me and read.
EPOV
The fingers of my left hand caress the soft skin of her cheek, just below the brown eyes penetrating my soul. I stare back, feeling the strong connection between us as though it has a depth and a breadth that echoes through my heart. It's tangible, like a current extending from every cell and fiber of my being into hers. Bella gasps softly and I know she feels it too.
I lean just a bit closer and gently catch her full lower lip between mine. I repeat my actions, this time with her top lip, before kissing her fully. Our mouths move tenderly. With every kiss and caress, I plead and atone for my great sin and Bella accepts and forgives me. It's still so much more than I deserve and the magnitude of her love overwhelms me. My hands follow the lines of her body as I explore and taste. Even though I know I don't deserve her, I can't deny myself. Every touch and kiss she surrenders to me is not enough. My body and soul crave her in every way. She is my sole reason for existing.
"I love you so much, Bella," I whisper as I kiss the delicate skin just below her ear. "I need to show you. I need to …to…"
"I know. It's okay, Edward. Show me. Love me, Edward." Her words bring me back from the space in my head I still get to when I'm engulfed by the power of both her unconditional forgiveness and my crushing guilt for what happened.
Her breath quickens as my right hand dips between the apex of her legs. I hover above her as I explore the warm wet silken skin that I know so well.
I lower my head to the swell of her breast and wrap my lips around her nipple, swirling my tongue over her hardened peak. My teeth gently graze the tip as I suck and pull.
"Edward…"
I push one finger inside her warmth, stroking her the way I know she likes while I lave and caress each breast in turn. My hips move instinctively as I rub myself against her soft body, suddenly desperate for friction. The bed pounds loudly but I don't care.
"Edward!"
"Bella, I want you. I want to make you come so hard, baby." I rub harder my hands gripping her soft body. The thumping staccato continues, somehow echoing against our rhythm.
"Edouard!"
"Yeah baby, say my name like that. I like the French accent," I murmur while something in my brain pulls at me.
"Edouard! Réveiller!"
I'm squeezing her so tightly that my hands nearly touch. Why is she so soft? Why is that thumping noise outside the bed? This doesn't feel right.
"Edouard! Réveiller!" Jean-Claude's insistent voice calls to me from outside where he is repeatedly banging a cup against one of the tent's wood posts. My eyes flash open as reality engulfs me like an arctic tsunami.
I groan and roll my eyes, embarrassed by my own subconscious. I loosen my grip on my pillow, which I was apparently humping in my sleep. How long am I going to have the same dream only to wake up alone and frustrated? I sigh; obviously, the answer is more than five years. I run my hand through my hair, absentmindedly noting it's time to cut it again. I don't like it to get too long. It's easy to pick up lice or other parasites in the jungle.
I hear the cup begin to bang once more as I sit up and push the mosquito netting surrounding me aside. I answer before the boy's trill voice, not yet lowered by puberty, rings out again.
"Oui, oui. Je suis reveille! Entrer."
I quickly toss my pillow onto my lap to hide my hard-on just as Jean-Claude opens the flap of my tent. Even though he's only about twelve, life on the streets of Abidjan has made him far wiser than his years. I can tell by his smirk that he's fully aware of my situation as he asks about my dream.
"Rêviez-vous de une go à nouveau?"
"Il ou elle peut me dja, bra-môgô," I reply, confident that my command of Nouchi, the Cote d'Ivoire's unique mixture of French and native African, has improved enough for me to use the language's double meaning of the sentence. I was both annoyed by the dream of Bella and yet I was still desperate, still dying for her.
Jean –Claude shakes his head, speaking Nouchi slowly so I can understand him easily.
"I know you still want this woman but it isn't like she's going to walk out of the jungle looking for you. Are you sure you don't want me to get you a girl? There are plenty of pretty ones in Abidjan that would be happy to help a man such as you. They'll make you forget her for a little while."
"Jean-Claude, I've told you before, I'm not interested in prostitutes."
"No, bra-môgô, not prostitutes, just godraps, girls looking for a good time. You buy them nice things if you want but no obligation."
I chuckle at his persistence before I reply curtly, "No."
I'm well aware that it's perfectly acceptable here for women to earn a living as professional girlfriends and mistresses. That role doesn't contain the same stigma as it might in other parts of the world but it's not something I want to exploit.
"Do you want a graté like you? Maybe you don't like the black women?"
"No, no! That's not it at all. I just… I don't want anyone else. Believe me, I tried to forget her and I can't."
"Are you saying you haven't been with any woman since she left you? You live like a pretre?"
I shake my head and shrug, unwilling to get into excuses for my pathetic sex life with this adolescent. The two one night stands I'd had in the past five years were more for release than for enjoyment. The first time, I did it more to prove to myself that I could than for any other reason. The second encounter had been a while ago, maybe close to three years? I don't remember many details about it. I was in Belize, distributing antibiotics and other essentials as part of a relief effort after a hurricane.
"She must be some woman, Edouard. It's not natural for a man to deny himself this way. A rich graté like you should have seven or eight dôgôfari. A different one enjaille every day of the week. You need to start making babies before your cock falls off from disuse."
"Jean-Claude…" I warn sharply.
"Oui, boss; I know. Get breakfast and let's get going. Someday you'll admit I'm right. There's aloko and attieke in pots on the camp stove. I'll break down the tent while you eat, okay?"
Jean-Claude sets up a basin of tepid water, wash cloth and bar of soap as well as a clean pile of clothes before he begins packing up my few belongings. As soon as I'm cleaned up and changed he shoos me outside. I'm still not completely comfortable with having a "business assistant", as he refers to himself, but it's commonplace for the wealthy here. Regardless of background, Americans are automatically assumed to be wealthy so even without anyone knowing who I was or what it meant to be a Cullen, it was expected that I'd need a servant. If I didn't employ him, God only knows what an orphan like him would be doing to survive on the streets of Abidjan.
We'd met shortly after I arrived to begin the vaccine trials. He'd been working odd jobs, mostly as a messenger and errand boy for a number of different businesses in the sprawling port city. Some, like the Médecins Sans Frontières where we met, were legitimate but he had a few less respectable employers in the notorious Treichville section of Abidjan. Regardless, Jean-Claude and I hit it off immediately. He was tall and skinny, with close-cropped hair and a long scar running the length of his left hand. He had an easy smile and friendly personality which were hard to resist, even while he informed me that my perfect Parisian accent was practically unintelligible to those who spoke the dry French of West Africa.
"You need to pronounce your words more clearly, bra-mogo. You can't slur them all together and expect to be understood, oui? Don't you have an assistant? No? Then it's settled. I'll work for you."
That was it. I'd apparently hired a boy no older than Bella's son J.J. to guide me through the mean streets of Abidjan as well as the trips to the rural villages. He'd turned his attention back to his cell phone where he shouted instructions to someone about a delivery, his rapid Nouchi so different from the classical French I learned in Swiss boarding school. During that first year, Jean-Claude helped me assimilate much faster than I would have otherwise. I paid attention to what he said and how he said it and picked up the most common words and phrases: bra-mogo, which loosely translates as dude, is probably my favorite.
I walk across the makeshift camp that encompasses all of a small roadside clearing, the only space of open land I can see. The solitary dirt road slices a thin ribbon of dust through the otherwise impassable thick green vines and trees of the coastal jungle. Here and there patches of steam rise up into the air as the night's condensation dissipates with the morning sun. The early hours are the most bearable part of the day this close to the equator. The sun isn't yet at full strength, allowing a brief reprieve of fresh air before the stifling moist heat of the jungle overwhelms its residents. We're on the final leg of a two month journey through some of the most remote parts of Cote d'Ivoire's southwestern region, near the border of Liberia. The area had been hit hard by an outbreak of Ebola which we're combatting with Cullen Conglomerated's newest vaccine.
In the years since Bella was framed, I've worked hard to re-focus the company's mission. We're no longer about maintaining profit margins and stock dividends. Our goal is to provide the vaccines and medicines that will make the world a better place. In the past two years, Cullen has become the only pharmaceutical company to successfully test an Ebola vaccine in Africa. We've partnered with relief organizations and charities that can distribute our products where they're needed most. I believe so strongly in our work that I relinquished my duties as Cullen's second in command to Alice so that I can be here myself, working on the ground, witnessing the vaccine's effectiveness at saving lives.
I make my way over to where a few of the other aid workers are eating and grab a bowl of attieke, a dish similar to couscous in appearance but made from grated, fermented cassava. I offset the tangy slightly sour flavor by adding a few fried plantains, known as aloko here. It's simple but filling. The camp bustles as foreign aid workers and staff are busy breaking down tents and loading trucks that will carry us to our next destination. I plan to eat quickly so I can help Jean-Claude pack up the truck. Even after two years, I'm still not comfortable with the idea of having a twelve year old doing my chores for me.
"Bon jour, Edward."
I glance up as Emily, a doctor from Boston, motions for me to sit beside her and another of our colleagues, Samuel, a doctor from Nigeria
I greet them both before asking in English "What time do you think we'll get to the village?"
"It shouldn't take longer than five hours if the roads are passable."
Samuel nods in agreement as he glances at the clear blue sky above us. "The roads should be fine. The rainy season isn't due to start for another month. We'll be back in Abidjan in another week if all goes well."
"The vaccine is working. I haven't seen anyone with a shaved head or covered in chalk in the last two villages we went through," I reply, referring to the local mourning customs observed by both male and female family members of the deceased.
"As much as we've done to help eradicate disease here, it's still so frustrating to arrive someplace new and find that we were too late," Emily agrees. "Hopefully, we won't see any mourners today."
Close to six hours later, the rugged terrain of the jungle road is behind us. We pull into a decent size town of approximately three thousand. A mixture of thatched mud huts and white stucco homes with rusty tin roofs dot the sloping hills as the jungle transforms to farmland. Scraggly coated sheep roam the wide red dirt roads. Jean-Claude perks up at the sight of telephone poles lining the streets, indicating that this village has power. Abidjan is a modern city filled with skyscrapers and cell phone kiosks. Like most sophisticated urban dwellers, Jean-Claude regards the small backwater villages with disdain.
"Don't get your hopes up bra-mogo. I don't think they'll have wi-fi."
"Not funny, boss. You know, it's very hard to be a businessman when I can't get a signal out here," he replies. He holds his cell phone in the air, as if that could help capture an elusive signal.
"You mean I'm not your only employer? Don't I pay you enough?" I joke.
"Boss, you're not going to be around here once the sickness goes away. I need to keep my options open."
His words are spoken in a matter of fact manner. People leaving are a way of life for him but it's a sober reminder for me. I'm hit by a wave of guilt at the idea of abandoning Jean-Claude to return to the life he had. Before I can probe further about his past, we pass a large stucco home surrounded by lush landscaping. White wrought iron bars on the windows protect air conditioners.
"War-lord or government official?" I ask Jean-Claude.
"Could be both," he shrugs slightly.
"Oui," I reply. Corruption and coups occurred all too often in West Africa. If Ebola wasn't a serious threat to the entire population, I'm sure Cullen would've had a much harder time getting approval from the government to initiate the vaccine trials.
We turn a corner and I see a low, white- walled building with a long portico straight ahead.
"There's the clinic."
As soon as we park, a few aid workers emerge from inside the building. Jean-Claude and our driver grab the bags of medical supplies loaded on the roof and in the backseat while I make my way over with the other members of our team. We quickly dispense with introductions and set up shop. Inside, the clinic looks like many I've visited over the past few months. It's sparse but clean with tiled walls and floors. Posters in French illustrate hygiene techniques and advice on disease prevention. My heart swells at the sight of villagers patiently lined up, waiting to be the first to receive the vaccinations. I'm proud that the vaccine's reputation is so positive. The people here trust us and our results.
Once we start, I spend the day working alongside a few American missionaries, including a minister named Jonas and his wife. I'm surprised to discover they're from Seattle. I put aside my unease at possibly being recognized and concentrate on my job. It's long and exhausting but by the end of the day, the clinic staff assures me that almost the entire population of the village has been vaccinated. A few members of our team will go house to house to follow-up and try to get the remaining inhabitants vaccinated.
"Your last name is Cullen, isn't it?" the reverend's wife asks me in English as we pack the last of the unused supplies.
I'd noticed her glancing at me a few times during the day. Apparently, five years and seven thousand miles isn't enough time or distance. My past sins continually haunt me. I decide to man up and take my punishment. I've learned over the years that women unequivocally hate me for not believing in Bella. They're right of course. I was the fool whose bruised ego overwhelmed his judgment. I sigh. It's no use denying it.
"Yes, I'm Edward Cullen."
She nods and smiles but there's a hint of sadness surrounding it. "I thought so. We never met but I've seen your picture enough times. I knew Cullen was distributing the vaccine, but I didn't realize that you were personally overseeing the operation."
"I had to be here. This is the most important work Cullen has ever done and I couldn't imagine supervising something of this scope from my office in Seattle," I reply as I grab a tape dispenser and keep my focus on sealing boxes.
"It's nice to see that you now devote your life to saving others. There's nothing else more important than that. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you."
I feel my face flush as she chatters on, seemingly unaware of how the tension in my muscles freezes my actions for a moment.
"When Jonas and I were released, we knew that missionary work was what we needed to do. We can't erase what we did but we can move forward by dedicating ourselves to helping people. If I can prevent others from going through the pain and trauma of tragedies; whether it's diseases, pestilence, war, anything that causes heartbreak and alters lives, then I'm truly doing the Lord's work."
It takes me a moment to realize what she's revealed. I take a good long look at her, this lady with grey hair peeking out from under her head scarf, her eyes soft and kind as she meets my gaze. Something about her strikes me as familiar. The exact reasons why remained submerged in my subconscious but I'm sure that I've never met her before today.
"Sorry, I know your Reverend Jonas' wife but didn't catch your name earlier."
"It's Martha, Martha Weber."
She pauses her packing, her hands still holding supplies as her eyes search mine for evidence of the recognition she clearly expects. The gears in my brain whirl as the pieces click into place. I don't remember the details but there'd been a domestic terrorism case all over the news in Seattle just about when I'd returned to work for Cullen.
"You were both in prison before this," I state as nonchalantly as I can. I certainly am the last person to hold that against someone.
"Yes, Sea-tac and then parole afterwards. It took a few years before we were allowed to leave the country but I personally think the government was happy to get us out of their hair. Of course, we were absolutely guilty of our crimes, unlike Bella."
"You knew her then?" I ask, my voice falling to a whisper. Another memory flashes to the surface. Jasper Whitlock's drawl fills my mind, 'she has a cellmate, a born again Christian I think, who has become her closest friend.' The shame overwhelms me as I drop my gaze and lower my head.
"Bella and I shared a cell. There were four of us in that little room," she shakes her head as if to clear an unpleasant memory. "We're still close. She's like a second daughter to me. In fact, my daughter Angela is Bella's personal assistant," she smiles as she mentions this, obviously pleased by their connection.
"That's good. I'm sure she must need the help since the book did so well," I reply.
"Yes it most certainly did. She had no idea how much of her time would be spent on the book tours and the t.v. appearances so it's good that Angela can help her. Now that the movie rights are secured, it seems like she'll be just as busy with that."
"Great," I mutter. As if my humiliation weren't complete, now there'd be a cinematic version. What's next, a t.v. series for everyone to binge watch?
Martha chuckles. "Edward, do you think Bella was unfair to you in the book? I assume you did read it."
"I read it when she send me the manuscript and asked if I'd have a problem with any of it. That was more than generous of her considering it was my entire fault. I only asked that she not be too hard on my parents. They were really just trying to protect me… and my sisters too. At that point, I figured it couldn't get much worse for me. Whenever I was out in public, I'd end up having some old lady come up to me and tell me what an idiot I'd been. One even tried to assault me with her groceries. Getting hit with a frozen turkey really hurts," I add the last line, hoping the image will make her laugh and we can end this conversation. A movie would just bring it all back to the forefront again. Warhol said fame lasts15 minutes for most, but it seems infamy lasts much longer.
She smiles and returns to her work, quickly and efficiently stuffing the remaining supplies into another box. She passes it to me and I seal with the tape. I can feel her scrutinizing me as I pick up the box and stack it with the others. We move on to the next box, working in tandem. After several minutes of silent observation, she stops and speaks.
"You came here to help people because you think you didn't help Bella?"
I shrug. "I needed to do something positive, something where I'm clearly doing the right thing. Saving people from a modern plague seemed like an obvious choice given my line of work."
"Edward, that's admirable but what do you think would've happened if you hadn't found those videos proving her innocence?"
"I should have believed her, I should have believed in her from the beginning."
"Why?"
"Wh-what?" I ask in disbelief.
"Bella was framed by a manipulative psychopath with a vendetta against your family. I still think he had something against Bella as well. Regardless, you were naïve and foolish, but you weren't the villain – that was James Floyd or rather Jason Chase. Stop blaming yourself."
She looks around then at the box in my hands. "That's the last one. Everyone is meeting at the clinic director's home. Let's go and have a nice meal."
It's hours later when I finally get to bed, a line of cots are set up in the clinic for the members of my team. Even though there's minimal privacy it's nice to be in a building instead of a tent. I lie back and think about everything both Martha and Jonas said to me over the course of the evening.
All the missionary workers I've met in the past few years seem to share a joie de vivre, a deep joy for the work they do as well as a love for those they're helping. There's something to be said for their simplicity of purpose. They truly want to make the world a better place by being here, among the poorest of the poor, helping those whose needs are the most basic- clean water, nutritious food, shelter, clothing, and medical care. Seeing them in action was so different from the images of the proselytizing hypocrites on television who urged you to send them money but it ends up lining their pockets instead of helping those in need. Not surprisingly, I hadn't met any of those smooth polished televangelists in the jungles of Africa or Central America. Instead, it was the peaceful, unassuming hard workers like Jonas and Martha who were changing my definition of missionaries. I hear Jean-Claude's unmistakable soft tread and open my eyes to see him climbing into the cot next to me.
"Où étiez-vous?" I ask with curiosity. I hadn't seen him in hours.
He replies in Nouchi, explaining that he'd met a few friends and decided to spend time with them. There's a wistful tone in his voice that reminds me how young he truly is. I try to see the expression on his face but it's too dark in the room.
"Amis, ce que les amis?" I ask, unaware that he knew anyone in this town.
"Des cousins," he replies offhandedly but his tone is too casual. I've never heard him speak of family.
It takes several minutes before I can get the story from him. Apparently this was his hometown but he didn't know that until today when a long-lost uncle recognized the scar on left hand and asked his name. Questions followed from both sides until Jean-Claude's family history was revealed. He knew nothing of his past. He had been only three when his parents left with him for Abidjan, seeking work. They'd both died- his mother from an infection after a stillbirth and his father from a short illness, leaving Jean-Claude an orphan at just six. By the time he was nine he was living on the streets.
"My family wants me to stay here with them," he concludes in a soft whisper.
"Will you?" I ask.
"I work for you, Edouard," he replies.
"So? Just today you reminded me that I won't always be here. You need to think of this opportunity. If you stay here, you'll be with family. Is that what you want?" I ask.
I'd much rather return to the States knowing Jean-Claude was safely in the care of his family than left to return to the streets of Abidjan.
"I can't decide tonight. I must think about it."
"I'll ask the people I've met here about your uncle. I'll make sure he's a good man before you decide," I vow.
"Merci, Edouard. You are a good boss. I think it is all right, though. He has been very generous today and I have many other family members- cousins, aunts, uncles, even a great-aunt. This town isn't so bad since it has wi-fi."
I chuckle. "What else could you need then?"
Two weeks later, I arrive in the small Abidjan flat that has been my home base for the past few years. My vaccination mission is accomplished. Jean-Claude is back with his family, and it's time to return to the States. I'm working on securing my plane ticket home when my cell phone rings.
"Max, it's been a long time," I answer, unable to keep the surprise from my voice.
"Edward, there's been a break," he replies just as succinct as I am. Max has been kept on my retainer for years. I've never given up the hope that I can find and punish the man I once knew as James Floyd for what he did to Bella, my family, and my employees.
"Tell me," I urge.
"Laurent DuBois has been arrested on charges of fraud. He is sitting in a jail cell in Jamaica at this moment. I'm flying there tonight. Care to join me?"
I lean back in my chair, stunned but elated. We've have several false leads over the years but nothing of this scope or magnitude. This is the best chance we've had at tracking down Jason Chase aka James Floyd. I immediately change the parameters of my flight search.
"I'll be there tomorrow night. Keep me up to speed."
He fills me in on the few details he has before we end the call. I finish my reservations and immediately pack the few possessions I have. Seattle will have to wait. I have a new destination.
A/N First, did you really think I would let Edward get Bella back so easily?Of course not. I just wanted to have a little lemony fun at his expense.I'd love to know what you all thought reading that part.LOL!
So why did this chapter take so long? Good question. I don't know. It just wouldn't work. I've written and deleted and re-written this one several times over. I was determined to send Edward to Africa and I knew he'd meet Martha and the Rev. there but I just couldn't get it to be what I wanted. Tonight, I had a mini-breakthrough and this is the result. Instead of reworking it to death like I have since April, I'm letting it fly. I hope the next chapter won't take 6 months to write.
Also, I didn't provide any translations since the phrases are pretty simple or I loosely translated the meaning in the sentences that follow. Google provided most of the French translations and I found a few other sources for the Nouchi words and phrases. Whenever you see Jean-Claude and Edward speak, assume it's in actually in Nouchi and French since Jean-Claude doesn't speak English.
In other news, Congrats to my beta maxandmo on the birth of her daughter! She is adorable.
Also, my favorite contest, Age of Edward, is currently up to thirteen submissions with new ones posting until January 3. The entries so far are AoE contest is anonymous but authors are allowed to say if they've written a story, just not which one is theirs. Of course, after what happened with the story you're currently reading, I'll just say go read and review. I have more than one reason to really be interested in this contest so let's leave it at -wink. There's a twitter: ageofedward as well as a public FB group (Age of Edward 2015), which reminds me, I am on FB too. Look for Michelle Duran with Olaf from Frozen as my avatar.
Speaking of Duran- don't forget to check out Duran Duran's new album, Paper Gods which has made many top albums of 2015 lists (I mean in , Yahoo, etc., not just me and my friends). My personal favorites on this album are the title track, What are the Chances?, and Last Night in the City; also, the iTunes bonus tracks are really good.O.k. enough about my favorite band!Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and here's to me finishing both IT and Tangled Up in the Mainline in 2016!
