Fancy
Peter's Point of View
"Fancy," her nametag says, and I'm sure she thinks she is, too—with her blue, glittery eye shadow and fake eyelashes, down to the caked on concealer that's doing a piss-poor job hiding the herpes around her mouth. Trust me on this one. I've drained enough whores to diagnose herpes better than any doctor.
"Will this be all for you, sir?" She asks me, flashing her nicotine-stained teeth as she tries to enhance her cleavage by squeezing her arms to each side of her chest. If I didn't know any better, I'd think she was trying to get my attention.
"Yes," I reply, trying to make my voice as steely as possible. Hell, I even angle my head up toward the florescent lighting, hoping she'll be put off by my red eyes. She sees them, alright, but doesn't even bat a fake eyelash.
I grab the brown paper bag and get out of the "Super" market as quickly as possible. Damned human food always makes my stomach churn. I hope Bella likes the stuff in a can because it smells the least offensive.
I'm about to make my way into the cover of the forest when I smell something rank—Fancy's perfume.
"Excuse me, mister, but I think you dropped this." I turn to see her sauntering up to me, her left hand on her hip and her right hand extended toward me. In it is a yellow sticky note. I can see from five feet away that there's a phone number on it with "Fancy" written underneath in a girly script—the tail of the 'y' curling around to form a heart. I'm sure the phrase "for a good time" is implied.
"I didn't drop anythin'." My tone is hard. Fancy doesn't take the less-than-subtle hint. She stops a foot from me, and I see a flicker of fear flash in her eyes as she looks over my shoulder toward the dark forest behind me. Her fear is invigorating, and I realize that I might need to amend my earlier statement to Bella. After our recent romp in the hay, I realize I could use a quick refuel. The difference between me and Bella is that what I want isn't on the menu at McDonald's. It's sitting in the back corner, downing a Big Mac and fries as it's coming down off of meth.
Now, Fancy is obviously a user, which qualifies her as food in my book. Fortunately for her, she has an actual job, which increases the chances that she might have kids at home. I've never broken the "bear cub" clause, and I don't plan on it tonight.
Taking the piece of yellow paper from Fancy, I take a quick glance at the text for her benefit. My eyes flicker back to her hopeful face.
"No, this definitely isn't mine." Crumpling up the piece of paper, I place it back in Fancy's hand, noticing the slightly broken expression on her face. If only she could understand that my rejection tonight means she'll live to see tomorrow.
Her hand closes tightly around the wad of paper as her mouth forms into a thin line. Without saying a word, she turns on her heel and heads back toward the store. I take off into the tree cover, leaving only a gust of wind in my wake. Fancy spins back around, her eyes quickly darting around as she stumbles in retreat. Now she'll have an interesting story to tell about a dark stranger who disappeared into the night. I'm sure she'll change some things and gloss over a few details, but I've left her with a little consolation. I'm not sure why it bothers me in the first place—whether or not I hurt a human's feelings. After all, their existence on this earth is so short-lived to begin with. Why should I worry about an event that has so little impact in the grand scheme of things?
I halt in my tracks. I realize I've been too caught up in my own emotions to step back and examine the facts—the differences. I know Bella's fragile and breakable. I'm always afraid to move too fast, to use too much pressure, to go too deep. But I restrain myself around her—not because she's human, but because she's precious to me. I'd never forgive myself if I hurt her. Bella's life is fleeting. Her days are numbered just like every other human that walks this earth.
I need to talk to Carlisle. As I run toward to Cullens' home, I feel my chest ache with the pull toward my mate. It's a pulsating pain, like the beating of a heart—her heart. Each pulse of pain carries with it both joy and misery, reminding me that she's here, she's alive, and she's mine. It also reminds me that those beats are numbered. They have an expiration date, and I have no clue when that is. It could be two minutes from now or seventy years from now. It's the uncertainty of it all that kills me the most. I'm going to have to take her life and hope she doesn't hate me for doing it. There's no other way.
My timing couldn't have been better. The engine of Carlisle's Mercedes is still warm. I barely leave the front door on its hinges when I burst into the living room.
"Is there something wrong, Peter?" Carlisle asks as I see his face flicker through a myriad of emotions in only a second.
"No, not now at least. I jus' need to talk to ya about somethin' important." Esme's ears perk up, hearing my words. "Alone, if ya don't mind, Esme." She and Carlisle share a look. Esme gives Carlisle one last meaningful glance before closing the door behind her. I wait to hear the sound of her retreating footsteps before I begin.
"Why did ya save Esme?"
"Well, because she was dying, of course," he answers simply.
I immediately shake my head."I understand that, but yer a doctor. People die every day. Why her? Why'd ya save her? Did ya know that you were … that she was yer mate? Could ya feel somethin' for her that made ya do it?"
"Yes, although it was so subtle I didn't realize it at the time. I did feel that there was something different about her. Of course I turned her to save her life, but I did it knowing that she was special for some reason. I only realized that she was indeed my mate when she began the transformation. Over the three days, I felt the bond between us grow. When she awoke, she felt it as well."
Carlisle's eyes noticeably glaze over and his mouth turns up in a smile. "Newborn mates are, shall I say … feisty." The look in Carlisle's eyes nearly has me dry heaving.
"Thanks for the heads-up, Doc." It's bad enough that I know about the dungeon. I don't need descriptions, too. "So yer telling me that I have no choice but to turn her?"
"Are you considering something else? I thought you would realize that it's the only way. You cannot leave her a fragile human. If you were to lose her, Peter, it would utterly destroy you."
I think I've already experienced that feeling on some level.
"I apologize for my interference in yours and Bella's relationship. It was before I knew that you were mates. I misjudged the situation and you. For that I am sorry."
I wave off his apology. After all, it's not necessary. "So this matin' thing is always a two-way street, right?"
"What do you mean by that?" Carlisle asks, before realizing the root to my question. He tries to hide a laugh. "You are asking if Bella feels the same for you?"
I nod, feeling dumber by the minute.
"Well, I have never seen it happen any other way. Mates are two parts to a whole. Bella should feel just as strongly for you as you do for her. If you have any doubt, why not ask her yourself?"
"Sure, I'll just explain the whole 'we're mates an' now yer stuck with me for eternity' bit an' see how she takes it. I'm sure it'll go real smooth." I shake my head and let out a humorless laugh. "There's no easy way to start that conversation. I just need to give her some time to figure it out on her own, that's all. It's her decision whether she wants me to turn her or not." I feel like a whiny child after my little rant. Even Carlisle is looking at me with that 'are you done?' look. Though, I'm sure he has to listen to girly-boy Edward and the deranged pixie all the time.
And speaking of girly-boy, I hear him and the rhinestone cowboy pull up on the gravel drive. A moment later, an intense wave of depression washes over me. I suddenly find myself curled in a fetal position, sobbing tearlessly on the floor. If I had a knife, I'd be hacking away at my wrists right now.
"Jasper, let him up," Carlisle demands. It takes a while, but I feel the overwhelming urge to wear black subsiding. I stand up and smooth out my clothes, shaking off the last of the emotional stupor.
"Asshole." Jasper glares in my direction.
"Does yours hurt?" I retort.
The Major appears right in front of my face, his veins bulging and eyes wide and crazed. My gaze immediately drops to the floor, falling back into my old role as his subordinate. It only happens for a moment before I realize "the Major" is still clad in ass-less chaps and a disco ball for a shirt.
Our eyes meet again. As he tries to maintain his position of superiority, a taunting smile spreads across my face, further infuriating him.
"Boys, calm down," Carlisle commands. "Jasper, you knew the details of the bet when you accepted the terms. Peter, Jasper upheld the terms of the bet, which is now over. Let us all put this behind us."
"Put this behind us?" Edward asks with a twinkle in his eyes. "How can I when I just met the most amazing person in the whole wide world?" I can feel a girly squeal fest coming on and crawl into the recesses of my mind for safety. "Ugh, I'm calling Alice. You testosterone-filled people just won't understand." And with a flip of his wrist, Sparkle Boy ascends the stairs with cell phone in hand. I do my best to tune out Edward and Alice's conversation.
"Go change, Jasper. I can't keep a straight face with ya lookin' like that."
He doesn't answer me, but I feel a taste of his irritation before he disappears and reappears in a much-less-gay getup. Still gay by my standards, but it's a giant leap in the right direction. Rub a little dirt on his designer jeans and he might pass for a man.
"I've suffered through enough tonight. You will not mention this again. Do ya understand me?" I detect a hint of menace in Jasper's tone, but it's a far cry from the stone-cold Major.
"I can't guarantee that I won't bring it up again, but I'll try to make an effort to refrain from mentionin' it for yer sake." Jasper glares at me and runs his fingers through his disheveled blond locks. He's clearly on edge, and I realize I might need to back off a bit. Of course, it might be good to rile him up a bit. Maybe some of the pansy tendencies his mate has formed in him will wear off. Then again, he might go ballistic on my ass and leave a Peter-sized hole in the sheet rock. Esme won't be too happy about that.
"Well, now that things are back to normal, I think I'll go for a hunt," I announce, before making my exit. I hear Carlisle's exaggerated sigh. He still continues to hope that one day I'll "see the light" and turn veg. Well, he'll be hoping for a long while, I'm afraid. I'm not going to trade my steak for tofu. I don't care if it's the "PC" thing to do.
As usual, I'm heading toward Seattle. It's just easier to find a meal that'll go unnoticed in the bigger cities. It might sound sick, but I feel like I'm doing a service. I'm saving taxpayer dollars by getting rid of the criminals and the drug fiends who end up spending time in the slammer. And in case you're wondering, I maintain a permanent residence in Tennessee. I have a driver's license, a social security number, and a bank account. So, I do pay my taxes. Well, I pay the taxes for Grant Hopper, my assumed identity.
Grant was a rich kid who ended up on the wrong side of the tracks. Conveniently, for me at least, disowned by his family, he was moments away from death when I found him—overdosed on pain pills and Ambien. I keep close track of his family to make sure they don't go sticking their noses in my business.
Strange. Checking the air, I canvas my surroundings. No, I'm definitely still on the Cullens' territory, but I still smell the dog on my heels. Son of a bitch is following me. I stop, waiting for the pup to show himself. Sure enough, a red-brown wolf makes his way into the moonlight from out of the dense foliage. His head is lowered and his teeth are bared. I have half a mind to break his jaw. I can do it too, probably before he even realizes what's happening.
"Did ya get lost, little pup?" I taunt him, begging him to attack me. He snarls wildly at my words, his beady eyes reflecting the light of the full moon. "You do realize I don't speak overgrown dog. If ya have somethin' to say to me, then you'll need to shift, or whatever ya call it. But if you're here for a fight, then make yer move." I shift into my fighting stance—low to the ground, balanced on the balls of my feet, and shifted to the side. The wolf's body begins to shake, and I'm not sure whether he's shifting or just really pissed. He begins to pace back and forth before me, his eyes never leaving mine. He's looking for a weak point.
He won't find one.