It's been far too long since I updated Release. My apologies to all of you who have been kind enough to stick around. I will finish this story, that's a promise. My beta MellieurCafe (aka SerendipitousMC) and prereader Isabeausink have upheld me in much more than this, and saved me from my own stupidity this chapter. They're the best. Simply the best.
Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. I own a mortgage, a golden retriever, a laptop with an unreliable "w" key and the scenario to this story.
In chapter 9: Jacob seeks help from his mentor to "fix" things with Bella, but Paul reminds him that loving him isn't in Bella's contract. He has to accept that she doesn't want to be his girlfriend. Jasper smacks Edward with a wooden spoon while cooking him breakfast and schooling him on the rules of engagement in the game of love. Bella and Rosalie have pointed conversation over breakfast, and Rosalie advises her to give Edward a chance. Alice tries her ninja moves on Paul in the parking lot of the Hale Gallery, mistaking him for Jacob. Rosalie and Alice meet when Rosalie drags a sputtering and swinging Alice away from Paul so Bella can talk with him. And Alice gets Bella into her Porsche with an offer to take her home. But she heads toward Forks instead of Seattle.
Chapter 10
How such a wide gulf could exist between two people in such a tiny car was beyond Alice.
After a brief but fierce argument about turning around and taking Bella to Seattle, Bella had stilled, not speaking, not even shifting in her seat. It wasn't a peaceful stillness. She seemed coiled, clutching the door handle in a way that made Alice grateful that the locks engaged when the Porsche was in gear.
Alice tried waiting Bella out. She tried coaxing—she was a master at coaxing, wheedling and other methods of cracking the reluctant.
Still, Bella remained silent.
Worse, Alice sensed that Bella wasn't merely being stubborn. She seemed stuck, like a full bottle of ketchup that simply wouldn't pour. Not that Alice ate ketchup, but Jasper did. She'd seen him resort to easing a knife down the inside of the bottle to release the flood.
Clearly, that wasn't an option with Bella.
The forest flew by in a silence so oppressive, Alice was tempted to roll down the windows and scream again. But she couldn't think of a single Pink lyric that suited this situation.
At last, as the miles compounded her desperation, Alice realized she had only one option: the scariest one of all. It took another mile or two of silence for Alice to force the words out. "Jasper and I are separated."
Bella snorted. "Since when, yesterday?" Her tone was acid, something Alice was typically impervious to, but now tears welled.
"He cheated on me." The words wobbled, and Alice couldn't believe how much it hurt to say them. Alice had never said them aloud. Never really let herself call it what it was. She'd always couched it in terms that kept the blame from both Jasper and herself. Tears dripped off her chin as the car passed over a bumpy section of road.
The admission hurt so profoundly that Alice almost forgot Bella was there until she asked, "Why are you telling me this?" She sounded wary, and Alice knew she had earned that wariness, which made it hurt even more.
"Because you're my best friend. My only real friend." Alice tried to breathe normally and steady her voice, but it didn't work, in part because Bella began emphatically shaking her head the moment Alice opened her mouth.
"We aren't friends, Alice. I haven't seen or heard from you in ten years!" Bella threw her hands up, as if at a loss to more fully express how very not friends they were. "And back then, I didn't know you at all. It was more like I was friends with a girl you helped me imagine. A mirage." Bella managed a grim smile. "You'd think that coming from the desert, I wouldn't have fallen for that."
They both flew against their seatbelts as Alice pounded the brakes, sending the car into a terrifying, though probably highly cinematic, skid. They came to a graceful halt amid a cloud of dust as the gravel settled back to the shoulder of the road. "Stop saying things like that!" Alice yelled. "It. Was. Real, Bella."
Then Alice sobbed. There was no soothing hand, no hug, no murmur of comfort from the passenger seat. Alice had never felt so alone in her life. When she'd cried herself out, Alice wiped her eyes, checked her mirror then pulled onto the highway again.
Bella's instinct to comfort Alice warred with bitterness that Alice would seek her out now. Despite her claims, Alice wasn't here to make amends. She wanted something from Bella. Though Alice's tears were clearly heartfelt, she felt manipulated once again, unable to understand motivations and unwilling to be duped a second time.
"Edward said Rosalie told him that that … man … brought you in on a leash."
Bella almost laughed: Alice had found her angry voice.
"Yes, he did."
"Why, Bella?" Alice sounded just like somebody's mother. In fact, the ever-condescending Esme couldn't have done a better job of trying to make her feel her sins. It made Bella rebellious. "Because it turns me on."
"Bullshit." Okay, maybe not Esme, who would never have sworn. At least not before those below her station. She'd always been kind to Bella, if distant, when she was just friends with Alice. But when she started dating Edward, Esme's frosty patrician superiority never receded. She wondered if Alice realized who she sounded like.
So Bella laughed. "It does. Really."
"But that's not why."
She hadn't seen that one coming. Bella looked out her window at the passing trees, which were somehow familiar. How was it possible she was here, in a car with Alice, speeding toward the town she'd hoped never to see again? As quickly as her glibness had arrived, it abandoned her. There were no words that wouldn't stick in her throat.
"Do you love him?" Alice's disapproving tone implied she already knew the answer, so Bella gave it.
"No."
To her surprise, Alice seemed horrified. Perhaps not that she didn't love Jacob, but that she knew she didn't love him. Bella wondered if the leash would bother Alice so much if she were head over heels for Jacob. Anything for love? Bella suppressed a snort. She'd made that mistake ten years ago.
"Does he love you?" Alice pressed.
"It doesn't matter." Of course it did, but she wouldn't be confiding that to Alice anytime soon. Bella kept her secrets to herself now.
"Love always matters, Bella. I think I learned that from you."
Bella was at a loss: she'd never said anything of the sort to Alice, not that she could remember anyway. And if she had, it would have been the naïve chatter of a lovestruck seventeen year old. It was hard not to sneer at the memory of herself in the throes of her one-sided love. Not exactly a credible source for words to live by. The shame at being deceived made her cheeks burn even now.
"When I told Jasper I wanted to have a baby, he left me." The words were so quiet, they hardly seemed to come from Alice. They were like a thought, a regret given voice. "He came back to Seattle. To work on the sequel, but that's not what happened. He just ..." Suddenly, Alice seemed to need all of her concentration on the road, though it was utterly familiar now. They were passing through Forks. "When I showed up at his apartment, he was inches from consummating things with Maria."
Bella couldn't help it. Her eyes welled. She knew what seeing that moment felt like. When she could speak without tears in her voice, she asked, "Is he there?"
Alice seemed to know she was talking about Edward. "He was when I left this morning."
"Does he know you're bringing me here?" She hated herself for wishing he'd sent Alice. For hoping anything when it came to Edward, especially after last night. By now, he must be disgusted by what he'd seen. Bella had listened to Rosalie, but hope was the most perilous toy in the toy box. The one that could truly hurt her.
"He thinks I'm taking you to Seattle."
Of course. He hadn't asked for her. He wouldn't want her here. "Then why aren't you?" They were close to the turnoff now.
"Because I want my life back."
Bella shook her head. "I can't help you with that."
"You're wrong, Bella. Don't you get it? You're the key to everything." There was no giddiness, no sales pitch. Alice said it like it was the hardest truth she'd ever faced.
Bella bristled. "I'm not a 'key' or a toy or a magic solution to anything, Alice."
"Of course you're not," Alice snapped, grabbing Bella's hand and squeezing it hard. "You're the missing person in our family. We can't be whole without you. None of us."
"So this is about what I can do for the Cullens?" Bella's voice was quiet, deadly. How dare Alice? How dare any of them?
"What we did—it was wrong, Bella. And I've never stopped regretting it. Neither has Edward or Jasper."
Alice braked again, slowing for the turn onto the private drive, and Bella drew a shaky breath. She'd said her goodbyes to this place. How could she face it again? "I'm sorry for my part in this. If it makes any difference, I've never been close to anyone the way I was with you. I've missed our friendship more than I can say."
Bella hoped her silence conveyed … she didn't even know what. How could you sum up the years of dismay and grief and self-doubt? She could almost see a ghost of her seventeen-year-old self weaving, lost, through the ferns and trees. Wondering how she'd been so wrong, and how she could win them all back. She wondered if there really was anything left of the girl she once was, and if so, whether it was worth saving.
Alice stopped the car and grasped Bella's hand. "I don't deserve a second chance to be your friend, but I'm asking you to give me one. I love you, Bella."
They were the words she'd needed so desperately ten years ago, words that would have absolved everything the moment they were spoken.
But now? What could they possibly mean now? Bella couldn't take them at face value anymore. She breathed deeply and remained silent, letting Alice interpret it as she would. She couldn't bear the thought of crying, or of falling into Alice's arms for a hug of reconciliation. Nothing was reconciled. Nothing made sense.
They drove slowly and silently past the path to the meadow and eventually into the Cullens' front yard.
"We're home."
Bella shook her head and opened her car door. "I don't have a home in Forks. Not anymore." She got out before Alice could reply. Out of the frying pan, into the fire, she thought grimly.
But it didn't smell like fire: it smelled damp and green and familiar.
And beloved.
Tears pricked her eyes when she raised them in time to catch a glimpse of Edward. His retreating form disappeared onto the trail that ran beside the river. Something about his body in motion, leaving her behind again, loosed her tears. They streamed down her cheeks.
"He's lost without you, B. Always has been." Alice's voice hitched and she fell silent, though she placed a shaking hand on Bella's back.
They stood side by side, staring at the place where Edward disappeared into the woods, until an arm encircled each of their shoulders and Jasper said, "He'll be back, darlin'."
Jasper held tight to Alice, but watched Bella's face. Was the thought of Edward returning her fondest hope or worst fear? By the look of her, it was both and so much more. Finally, Bella nodded.
Then she turned to him. "How are you Jasper? Really." Her question was weighted in such a fashion that Jasper understood: Alice had told Bella.
Alice slipped from beneath his arm and hurried toward the house.
For a moment, he just stared at her retreating form. This was monumental: she'd actually told someone. He knew she hadn't before.
When the door of the house clicked quietly shut behind Alice, he said, "For some reason, she still loves me."
To his surprise, Bella threw her arms around his waist and hugged him hard. "I don't know what to do, what to believe."
Jasper stroked her hair, waiting her out.
"Does he hate me?"
Jasper let out a huff that in any language translated into don't be stupid. "Hates himself mostly. And after what he saw last night, he's afraid he drove you to it."
She became incredibly still in Jasper's arms. He couldn't even feel her breathing. Even Bella probably didn't know if she'd have arrived at her current role if things had been different with Edward.
What Jasper understood, better than most, is that Bella had made the choices.
She was responsible.
"Why is he back?"
"Why do you think?" Jasper adored Bella almost as much as he loved Alice, but really, she was refusing to see the obvious. "He has no family, no job, no friends here. There's only one reason for him to come back, Bella. You."
"But that doesn't make sense!" It was an anguished plea, one Jasper was sorry he couldn't answer to her satisfaction. Only Edward could do that.
"It will, Bella. I promise it will." Jasper continued to stroke her hair while she held on to him, but he didn't look down to see her face. He knew she needed that last vestige of privacy. Like him, Bella seemed to hate being caught feeling.
When she seemed a bit more composed, Jasper led her around to the back entrance, sliding open the patio door so they could enter without having to separate from their embrace.
The bedroom Jasper slept in was the only one on the first floor. Though it was only lunchtime, he led her there and pulled back the covers on the bed. Bella released him, toed off her shoes and lay down like an obedient child, finally looking up and meeting his eyes as he settled the covers over her.
He bent over and kissed her forehead. "You deserve to be happy, darlin'."
Her big brown eyes welled again, but he didn't offer further sympathy. She needed to sit with that thought. So Jasper gave her a small bow, like a true Southern gentleman, and left the room, closing the door behind him.
Then he took the stairs two at a time. He needed to find Alice.
R*E*L*E*A*S*E
The bedroom door stood open—the bedroom they once shared, Alice reminded herself—and she heard him before he stopped at the threshold. She ached that he did so, but she was also relieved. Without turning away from the window, she asked, "What did she say?"
She could tell he shrugged, though she never looked back at him. "Not much. She's got a lot to think through."
It was a non-answer as far as Alice was concerned. She turned away from the window and tried to brush past him. "I have to—"
"No." Jasper hooked his arm around her waist and turned her toward him. It was dizzying, being so close to him. He smelled like grass and sunshine and man. Her man. And part of her wanted him right now. "Bella and Edward have to work this out themselves."
She struggled to free herself. She couldn't do this. Not yet. "But—
"Alice."
Jasper's voice sank through her like a stone in a pond, settling into her core and sending ripples in all directions. He was so handsome. He smelled so good. And he was doing everything she could ask: talking to Edward, comforting Bella.
And he wanted her: the timbre of desire rang through in that one word: her own name.
He towed her toward the bed and she felt helpless to resist. She wanted him so badly, but she wasn't ready. Nothing was resolved between them.
But his mouth was on her, and she couldn't help returning his kiss, reflecting back his desire with her own. His arms, his mouth, his arousal at her belly. To be skin to skin again, lost in pleasure … the reunions were always sweet.
And always short-lived.
Alice pulled back from the kiss, heartsick.
But Jasper dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around her waist. Her hands automatically went to his hair. It was sweet relief to still be holding him, but not surrendering.
He looked up at her, though it wasn't up by much. Even on his knees, he wasn't much shorter than Alice. "Since that day in London ..." He released her waist and placed his hands on her face, pulling her so close that his lips touched hers as he continued. "I've thought of you pregnant every day." He kissed her now, gentle pecks to her cheeks and jaw and lips. "Your belly growing with my child." He kissed down the column of her neck and said the next words over her heart. "I can wait forever, Alice, if it means you'll invite me in again."
He looked up at her then over to the bed, pressing a hand to her belly as he used to do when she had menstrual cramps. "Into your bed, into your body." His voice dropped. "Into your heart."
Alice held his face and kissed his mouth fiercely: an emphatic yes-but-no. Yes, she wanted him, but she had too many questions. And she had yet to take the hardest risk: offering him his freedom.
Now was the time.
"Are you sure you wouldn't be happier with Maria?" Alice would give him that, if it would make him happy. It would cost her everything that mattered, but she would give it.
Jasper placed a finger over her mouth to stop the usual torrent of words—words that wouldn't have come this time. She couldn't bear to say more. Still, it was his signal that she should listen. "Maria and I ran away to Civil War Gettysburg together." He shook his head and snorted, apparently struck by the absurdity of it, while Alice held her breath, waiting for his verdict. He stroked her cheek. "I don't want to run away anymore. I want to live my life. With you."
Something broke inside her. It was everything Alice wanted to hear, but it also wasn't enough.
He'd said all the right things before.
And then he'd left again.
She threw her arms around his neck and buried her face in his hair. "I want you, Jasper. So much. But I can't yet, and I'm afraid you'll leave me again." Her sobs weren't pretty: her heart was too broken for that. She didn't even care. If he left now, what did it matter anyway?
Suddenly she was in his arms, scooped up like a bride. Alice only cried harder, knowing she would give in, knowing she would regret it.
But Jasper didn't carry her to the bed. He took her to the love seat that faced a window overlooking Esme's gardens and gazebo. Alice had often, in dreams she'd never shared with Jasper or anyone else, pictured children playing there.
Jasper sat down, holding her in his lap, his arms wrapped tightly around her. "I'm not leaving," he whispered into her hair. "I'm never leaving. You'll see."
Alice's body believed him—her skin, her bones. But she sobbed to the cadence of his steady reassurances.
R*E*L*E*A*S*E
When Bella woke, she peeked out of Jasper's bedroom, but her stealth was unnecessary. No one seemed to be around. It was a disappointment, but also a relief. No one could stop her from retrieving her bag and going for a run. She needed the release that only came from her body when it was pushed hard enough.
She needed to push it hard.
She laced up her trainers out on the porch, hoping to be off before anyone looked for her. It was misty, the kind of mist that doesn't even make the ground wet—perfect for running. Without further preparation, Bella started at a warm-up pace, taking the trail that led into the national forest lands. It made the longest loop up and away from the Cullen house.
Bella loved running hills. The effort of keeping her pace took all of her concentration and her mind went blessedly blank. After a while, the effort also gave way to the sensation that her body wasn't quite touching ground. It became a euphoria free of happiness or feelings.
A purely physical joy, which ended when she crossed the trail that led to the meadow.
It would be empty, she reasoned, and in daylight it wouldn't be haunted by the ghosts of unhappy memories. Wildflowers were not in season, so it wouldn't seem magical as it had the day they made love there.
It would be lovely, but entirely ordinary.
Bella slowed to a walk as the trees thinned. She stayed at the perimeter, circling and trying to trust the place.
Eventually, her circles narrowed, drawing her closer and closer to the center of it all. She was nearly at the spot, the one that never left her memory, when the dead grass moved.
She stilled for a moment, then moved forward, knowing that whatever animal she'd startled must be long gone already.
But no. Just as she stepped closer, there was movement again. Something large stirred and sat up.
"Edward." Bella hardly breathed the word.
He looked disoriented, as if he'd just woken but didn't yet realize it. "Are you real?" His voice was gruff with sleep and disillusionment. As if he couldn't be sure of anything anymore.
Something split open in her, a god-awful mixture of misery and sweet hope. She couldn't decide which of them was worse. "I must be," Bella choked out the words to a question that seemed completely fair since she wasn't quite sure herself. "I don't think either of us would make this up."
Edward's eyes looked glassy with unshed tears. "Were you looking for me?" The disbelief and hope in his words buckled Bella's knees, and she staggered forward, crouching beside Edward.
She hadn't been looking for him. At least, she didn't think so. Hadn't she assumed he was already back in Port Angeles? She pictured him talking with Rosalie, their heights and unreal beauty so well matched.
But hadn't part of her always hoped? Always looked for him around every corner and in every new situation? "Yes," she said. "I was afraid you'd left." She could no longer deny how much she wanted something from Edward. An explanation, an apology, a happily ever after.
As she balanced there, one hand on the ground to steady herself, it occurred to her: after all these years, she was still building her entire world around him. Hadn't she hoped he'd be proud of her degrees and career? Hadn't she wondered what he would think when she bought her house? Hadn't she climaxed at the thought of him seeing her in Jacob's playroom?
Somehow, it was all for Edward.
As the realization struck, she was so absorbed in it that she didn't immediately notice the way Edward's shoulders slumped. "Of course you thought I left," he whispered.
When she did, she quickly tried to backtrack. "I didn't mean it like that."
"It's okay, Bella." Edward rose to his feet, and Bella saw he was still dressed for his run. He must have run himself into exhaustion, too.
Despite his muscular frame, he looked fragile.
Finally, he scanned the meadow as if from her perspective. "You must hate this place."
Bella shook her head. Nothing could have been further from the truth. How can you hate the scene of your happiest moment, even when it's also the crucible that saw your most painful one as well? "I was so happy when we ..."
Edward hung his head. "I destroyed it, and I'm sorry." He turned and began walking away.
He still hadn't met her eye.
Bella lunged for his hand, spinning him to face her. "Was it real?"
Edward stepped close, too close. He was right there, his eyes locked on hers. He trailed the backs of his fingers down her cheek. "It was the most real thing I've ever done."
"Ever?" How could that be true? He'd done so much, been so many places. She didn't let herself think of the many women he must have taken to his bed, especially Tanya.
He leaned closer, as if he might kiss her, and Bella stepped back, her hand to the cheek he'd just touched. "Then why?"
Edward's hand still hung in the air, as if she were still there. Then he let it fall to his side. "It was the only way to protect you."
"Protect me?" It made no sense. Her father was the chief of police, for heaven's sake. And this was Forks, Washington. "From what?"
He hung his head again. "I can't tell you."
The bastard.
Bella spun away and broke into a sprint. Edward didn't want her. Alice and Jasper were wrong. Or they were in on it.
Why had they picked her back then? And why had she let herself fall for it again?
Something between a laugh and a sob escaped her as she realized: Edward had perfected the art of humiliating her. All he needed now was some skill with ropes and floggers. They could be good together after all.
The thought was devastating.
Fuck Edward. Fuck Alice. Fuck the game they were playing.
Bella's feet flew over the path toward the house, familiar enough that the tears clouding her vision didn't slow her pace.
"Bella!"
It wasn't until he shouted at her that Bella listened. His footfalls matched her own, but his legs were longer. He'd catch her.
She tried to speed up, but she was already tired from a grueling run, and her shaking legs began to slow just as she realized she'd trapped herself between Edward and the river, at the very spot where she'd hidden her letters on graduation night.
Suddenly Edward had her, his hands wrapped around her upper arms as if he feared she'd continue right into the water.
Bella shook free of him and scrambled to the water's edge. "What do you want from me?" The words tore from her chest and echoed off the trees. "What kind of game are you playing with me? Because I don't know the rules, Edward. Do I win if I'm strong? Do I win if I lose? Or do I just keep losing?"
"It was never a game, Bella. Never." He stepped toward her warily, hands out, but Bella, scooped up a rock and threw it.
The thud as it hit his chest settled sickeningly in her stomach. A lot like the thud of a flogger, really.
Edward stood stock still, as if waiting for the next rock.
Was this what she looked like as she waited for the next blow? Welcoming the pain?
In spite of everything, she didn't want Edward to welcome pain. Not him.
Bella raised her hand as if to touch Edward's chest where the rock had hit. "I'm sorry."
Edward shrugged. "I deserve it."
"No." Bella shook her head, unable to look away from his eyes.
"Tell me why you let him hurt you."
Bella's cheeks flamed. He wasn't getting away with it, not this time. "After you tell me why you had to leave and what you think you were protecting me from." She couldn't resist using air quotes.
Trapped between the rocks and the river, Bella had little choice to wait as, step after step, Edward closed the distance. When he was close enough, he touched her cheek again, and Bella couldn't help looking into his eyes. Pleading.
"If I'd told you then, he would have hurt you. If I tell you now, I'd make you an accessory to a crime."
Bella raised a hand, not sure if she would slap him or stroke his cheek.
But a shrill electronic chirping broke the spell: Edward's phone.
He seemed intent on ignoring it, but Bella stepped away. What did she really know about Edward? Very little that wasn't in the media or reported to her by Alice, Jasper and Rosalie, who made a highly effective PR committee.
He was too good at worming his way past her defenses. She needed to think.
So she said, "You should get that."
She was desperate to escape to the house, but Edward's eyes pleaded with her to stay as he pulled his phone from his pocket and answered. "Edward Cullen." He scowled and Bella began to back away, afraid of what she might hear.
But what she did hear rooted her to the spot, her eyes on Edward's. "Slow down, Seth. Start again. What's happened to Rosalie?"
R*E*L*E*A*S*E
It should have been a satisfying day: the reviews of last night's opening were favorable toward the photographs and one contained a few juicy suggestions about the scuffle between Edward and Jacob. Foot traffic had been excellent, and two more photographs sold. She'd made more money in the last two days than she had in the last month. Seth even showed up on time to finish the cleanup.
Still, Rosalie was pissed off at Rope Chick all over again. Not that Bella had done anything wrong. More that she'd wormed her way in, and the little chink that had opened in Rosalie's heart the night before as she soothed away Bella's nightmare was widening.
Stretching.
Growing.
And it ached.
Rosalie didn't do fragile. She wasn't some sad princess to be petted and cheered. She was a goddamn warrior, and it didn't matter if her armor was heavy and she got tired sometimes. You got up and kicked ass anyway. That's what she always told herself.
So it was a shit time to discover she was lonely and, far worse, that she wanted more.
Friendship, and the longing for love, all in one day.
"I'm done with the garbage, Ms. Hale." Seth had been contrite all day, and Rosalie decided to reward him. He'd finished everything on the list without reminders, and had even noticed a few things on his own, taking care of them without asking or being told.
She gave him a curt nod—he didn't need to know she was going soft. No one did. "Wash up, then I want you to play."
Seth smiled, but had the grace to squelch it by mashing his lips together. It gave Rosalie the unsettling feeling that he could see right through her. The little fucker.
When he returned, Rosalie barked out, "La fille aux cheveux de lin."
Debussy was always a risk. She couldn't play this piece herself anymore, but it had been haunting her lately, mental background music she couldn't shake. And since it hadn't caused any panic attacks, she was willing to brave it. She could always make him stop, claiming he was butchering it.
Seth hesitated—she'd given him a list of things not to play in her presence, and this piece was on it.
"What are you waiting for?" She clapped her hands, more football coach than piano teacher. "I know what I'm doing. Now."
He nodded and looked down at the keys, adjusting his body and centering himself. Rosalie could feel it as if she were doing it herself—the feeling of entering the music. And then he began.
It washed over her and through her, an impossible balance of loss and delight. The music was still in her, she could feel it flowing. With her eyes closed, she sat perched on the edge of her chair, swaying slightly, as if her own hands were in motion on the keyboard.
It was so close. If she just put her hands on the keys, it would flow as it always had, from some place beyond brain and heart and hands. Some wordless language that she could channel better than all but a handful of other people on the planet.
Eventually, Seth would be one of them. His technique was excellent. There were nuances yet to master, the ones that come from living and loving and inhabiting the music, but he would get there. He would leave her far behind.
When he finished, he went still for that sweet moment when the last notes still hung in the air, then put his hands in his lap. Rosalie crossed the room and put a hand on his shoulder. "You did a good job today. Why don't you head on home?"
He seemed to grasp the praise she couldn't voice. "It's still early. I could ..." He trailed off, eyes scanning the room for something he could do to occupy the last half hour before closing, but all was in order.
"Don't worry, you'll get full pay," Rosalie teased. But when he looked at her, almost injured by what she seemed to imply, she softened. "I'm exhausted, and with the rain, I doubt we'll have anyone else in this afternoon. I'm going to close up early."
"Thanks, Ms. Hale." Seth stood and fetched his jacket. "Are you sure? I could stay and walk you out."
Rosalie rolled her eyes. "I'll be fine, Seth." If anyone ought to know Rosalie didn't need a body guard to escort her to her car, it was Seth. He'd had a close encounter with her knife skills. "Just lock the front door, please."
She shook her head as he made a show of checking the back one more time for anything else that needed to go out to the dumpster. Finally, he shrugged and backed toward the door. "Good night."
"Bye, Seth. Don't let the door hit you and all that." Rosalie crossed to her office. She didn't want anyone hovering for what she was about to attempt.
When the coast was clear, Rosalie returned to the gallery and turned the piano so it faced the back wall. No one would be able to flag her if they looked in the windows and saw her. Then she turned down the lights, took a seat at the bench and set her hands on the keys.
Yes.
The music was there, close to the surface: tenderness and longing and flights of passion and fury wound into intricate notes and chords. Rosalie centered her self, shifting on the bench, settling her shoulders, closing her eyes so the music could flow unchallenged by her senses.
She didn't think about which pieces she loved or which ones were triggers. She didn't think at all.
She played.
The music came and she dissolved into it. There was no gallery. No Royce. No time.
Nothing but life rendered in sound.
Until a hand landed on her shoulder.
R*E*L*E*A*S*E
This was not the day of victory Emmett had planned.
Fog had prevented his takeoff from the layover in Phoenix, so he'd sat in the airport until well past dawn before boarding the plane to SeaTac. The airport hotel put him in a smoking room and, thanks to a Shriner convention, no other rooms were available. And his wakeup call never came.
As a consequence, he'd arrived in Port Angeles far later than anticipated, and nursing the kind of gut ache that can only come from large quantities of greasy food eaten while driving.
After a stop in a filling station restroom to change pants—some unidentified "special sauce" had dripped from one of his sandwiches onto his lap, missing the napkin—and some bad directions from both his GPS and a toothy waitress at a kitschy cafe, he finally arrived at the Hale Gallery with just 15 minutes to spare before it closed.
Or so he thought. He pulled up to the curb, peering at the darkened windows through the rain.
"Shit," he murmured, not being one for yelling, especially in defeat.
Still, he decided due diligence was in order. He extracted himself from his miniature rental car and went to the door to verify that the gallery was a going concern. For all he knew, it had closed months ago. Galleries weren't known for longevity, especially in an economy threatening recession.
Though the "house lights," for lack of a better term, were off, spotlights still illuminated artwork on the walls, and strangely enough, he could hear the strains of piano music. He cupped his hand and peered at the back of the gallery, where a glint of light off of golden hair focused him. A woman was inside, playing the piano.
Emmett tried the door, and it opened, just as the music soared into a crescendo that sounded like bittersweet loss. He blushed a bit for even thinking something that artsy and cleared his throat, but the woman was lost in what she was doing.
He didn't want to get off on the wrong foot with her, whoever she was. Perhaps the "Hale" in Hale Gallery? He'd need to win her over to get information about Edward Cullen.
So what was the polite thing to do here? The lights were out, and she clearly wasn't expecting any more customers today. But she was in, and this was his job. He cleared his throat and said, "Excuse me," but she didn't hear him.
He hesitated for a moment longer, then quietly approached, waiting for the music since it seemed to be moving toward a conclusion, a final feeling.
When her hands slowed and a long note hung in the air, he gently touched her shoulder.
And she screamed.
It wasn't one of those short, startled shrieks that can be kind of cute from the right woman at the right time.
It was terror unleashed.
She screamed and recoiled, overturning the piano bench and falling in her blind lunge to get away. When she hit the floor, she finally looked up.
He recognized her immediately, and kicked himself for not putting it together sooner. Hale Gallery was owned by Rosalie Hale. After it happened, her face had been on the cover of every New York newspaper except his for quite a while, the scar on her cheek livid, the headlines even worse.
Emmett had believed her story from the start. You didn't report on the financial world without knowing plenty about the King family, none of it good.
"Ms. Hale, I didn't mean to startle you." He crouched down, not wanting to loom over her, but his proximity seemed to frighten her even more. She let out a sound of terror he'd never heard before and scrambled across the floor like an animal until she backed herself into a wall.
And then she rocked and moaned, "No. Please no." A puddle appeared beneath her.
For all of his bulk and hard-nosed reporting, Emmett possessed a tender heart, and it broke at the sight of a woman cowering in terror.
It also seized when the door flew open and a boy ran in shouting, "What did you do to her?"
"Nothing, I swear," Emmett replied, glancing at the kid for only a moment before returning his gaze to Rosalie Hale. She shook and panted, her eyes dilated to black. This kind of panic could kill a person, he was sure.
He slowly and carefully extracted his business card from his breast pocket and held it out behind him. "I'm Emmett McCarty. I was looking for Edward Cullen." He waved the card a little, impatient for the boy to take it. "I came in and she was playing piano. I touched her shoulder to get her attention. That's all."
"Shit," the kid breathed. "It's my fault. I forgot to lock the door when I left. I came back as soon as I remembered."
"What's your name?" Emmett risked a glance away from Rosalie to meet the boy's eyes. He looked wary, and Emmett did his best to appear calm and patient. Time was critical now.
It seemed to take forever, but the boy finally, grudgingly, said, "Seth." Emmett couldn't tell if the kid actually trusted him, or if he just didn't know what else to do.
"Where's her purse, Seth?" The boy bristled, but Emmett continued slowly, calmly. "She's having a panic attack. We need to see if she has any medicine in her purse."
To Emmett's everlasting relief, the boy scuttled away into an office and returned quickly with a bottle of pills in his hand. "She doesn't carry a purse, but this was in her desk." Apparently, it wasn't trust: Seth tossed the bottle to Emmett from halfway across the gallery.
Xanax. He opened the cap and extracted two, though the directions called for one "as needed." One was clearly not going to cut it this time. "Can you bring me some water, Seth?"
The boy hurried to a cupboard, returned with a bottle of water and tossed it to Emmett.
"What are you going to do?" Seth looked like he didn't know whether to run or attack.
"I'm going to crawl over to her and try to get her to take these. Unless you want to try?" Emmett fixed him with a look, and Seth reluctantly shook his head, seeming to recognize that he was in over his head.
Rosalie didn't flinch when Emmett began to move. Her eyes were glazed, unseeing, and she continued to shake. Her breathing was so rapid, he was surprised she didn't faint.
"Rosalie?" She didn't look and didn't appear to be listening, but Emmett spoke steadily, quietly. "Rosalie, my name is Emmett. You 're having a panic attack, Rosalie. I'm sorry for that. I didn't mean to scare you, and I would never, ever hurt you." He slowly closed the gap between them, sliding on his knees, but not crawling. He didn't want to look predatory. When he was close enough that they could touch if they both reached, he held out his hand for her to see the pills. "You need to take these, Rosalie. They'll help with the panic."
She stared at his hand for so long that his arm started to shake, but he held it there. She panted as if she'd run a marathon, her eyes still black with terror. Just when he feared he'd have to move closer and risk scaring her, she looked up at him. Her eyes seemed to focus, and a single tear trickled down her cheek.
"I know," he murmured. "I'm so sorry."
She reached toward the pills, then flinched away again.
"It's okay, Rosalie. You're safe."
Her face crumpled then, and she reached for the pills, hiding her face as she did so.
"That's right," Emmett soothed. His voice was deep but hushed, and it hitched as he told her, "Here. I've got water for you." He moved to hand it to her, but she recoiled so he rolled it across the floor.
She clutched the pills in one hand and the water in the other, but seemed unwilling to take them with Emmett so close. He backed away—not far, but as a show of good faith. "I'll stay here while you take them, I promise."
She watched him warily, and he sat still, waiting for her to trust him. At last, without taking her eyes off of him, she twisted the cap off of the water bottle and took the pills.
"That's good, Rosalie."
"Ms. Hale, are you okay? Did he ..."
Emmett shot a glance back at Seth. The boy wasn't far behind him, and he looked scared and guilty.
"It's all my fault, I forgot to lock up."
Emmett shook his head, ready to reassure Seth, when Rosalie spoke. "You're not in trouble, Seth. Now go home."
"But..."
"Now, Seth!" Rosalie's voice was ragged and angry, and Emmett nodded to the boy, who reluctantly backed toward the door, but ran once he was outside. Emmett's heart lurched in sympathy for the kid, caught between the need to run like hell and his instinct to stand and defend. He'd be a good man someday.
When Emmett turned to her, Rosalie's body still shook, but she met his gaze. "You have to leave," she said, and it was a plea. Yet there was also a pride that transcended her current circumstances.
Emmett willed himself to exude reassurance as he said, "I won't leave you like this."
Rosalie turned toward the wall. "Don't look at me." Her shoulders shook harder, with tears this time. If Emmett had been run through with a blade, it couldn't have hurt his heart more.
"There's no shame here, Rosalie. None." He crawled close enough to touch, but didn't. "I know who you are, and I know what he did to you."
She stilled, and he could almost watch her defenses go up. "What do you want?"
Emmett crept closer and held out his business card, touching her arm with it. She didn't move to take it, but he held it there, waiting, until at last she did. "The Wall Street Journal? A little late to this story, don't you think? Did you get what you needed?"
She glared at him, and he admired her pride, even as she sat defenseless and terrified.
"I'm in the area covering a financial story, Ms. Hale. Nothing to do with what happened to you." That was true, but not enough of the truth to be alarming. For her own safety he needed her to trust him now, so he didn't want to bring up Edward Cullen. For all he knew, she was his girlfriend. Tall, blonde and gorgeous: definitely Cullen's type if Tanya Denali were any indication.
"Suuure." She sounded almost drunk with fatigue, or perhaps the medication was already taking effect. He needed to act quickly. He couldn't just leave her here, and he needed her functioning in order to help her change clothes and take her home.
"Rosalie?" She had slumped farther against the wall, her body incrementally slackening as the panic faded. "We need to stand up."
Emmett crouched behind her, lifting her arm and guiding it around his neck. Then he carefully rose to his feet, and she followed unsteadily, the curtain of her hair hiding her face from him. He wanted to brush it back so he could gauge her condition, but thought the gesture too intimate, especially when she noticed her pants and stiffened. Her shoulders began to shake again.
He steered her toward her office, assuming the restroom would be near it, and asked, "Do you keep a change of clothes here?"
Rosalie nodded. "Bottom left drawer of my desk." She veered toward another door and Emmett followed. She clung to the door jamb of the restroom and pulled her arm away from him. "Just leave them outside the door and go. I'll be fine."
Emmett didn't respond because he wasn't going to argue. He found her clothes—a pair of jeans and a seriously distracting pair of sapphire blue panties—and returned to find the door closed. He knocked.
"I said to just leave them and go." She panted the words; she was hyperventilating.
He quietly turned the knob.
She was leaning against the wall, gasping for air, her jeans unbuttoned and unzipped. But they were fitted, and because they were wet they clung to her. She seemed to be in a panic because she couldn't get out of them.
She looked up at Emmett, her face a picture of mortification, and he knew he would have to help. And manage it in a way that didn't further humiliate her.
"Here." He set the clothes aside and steered her to the sink so her backside was against it. "Hold my shoulders." He placed her hands, then worked her pants down her hips, careful to leave her panties in place. "Okay, now hold onto the sink." He knelt, eyes averted, and worked her jeans down her legs, unzipping her boots and coaxing them off so he could remove her pants completely.
As much as he tried not to look, he saw enough. She was absurdly beautiful. He couldn't imagine a scenario in which a man would want to hurt her. If he'd tried to conjure a perfect woman in his head, he couldn't have come up with anything better than Rosalie Hale—her spirit, her golden hair and fierce eyes. He didn't let himself think about the rest of her, wishing he hadn't seen her long, bare legs (or those sapphire panties) in these circumstances.
When he'd removed the jeans, he stood, wetted a handful of paper towels and handed them to her. "I'll be just outside if you need me."
He closed the door and leaned against it, listening. He couldn't hear her breathing, which he considered a good sign. She was calming down. The water ran and paper towels rattled, then the rustle of clothes.
He could picture her, dressing herself, her eyes avoiding the mirror.
Rosalie Hale was beautiful, but it was more than that. She was fire and ice. He felt it in the way she'd played before he scared her, and saw it as she endured her panic. Her strength in such a terrible moment of vulnerability tore down Emmett's own defenses, which had been at an all-time high since the breakup with Michelle.
The woman on the other side of the door was proud beauty and fierce devotion, a force to be reckoned with. And some other lucky bastard would win her—or already had.
At least he heard the zip and he stepped back just in time for her to open the door. She was shorter now, in her sock feet. She looked young, and her eyes were full of shame and gratitude. Emmett wanted to tell her it was nothing, but sensed that her pride couldn't bear it. So he took her hand and led her to her office, settling her into a chair. "I'll just be a minute, and then I'll take you home."
Emmett found the supply closet and cleaned up the floor in the studio, then put her clothes in the sink to soak. It was the best he could do.
After washing his hands and turning off lights, he picked up her boots. Something shiny caught his eye: a knife, secured inside with an elastic. Heartbreak and admiration warred within him as he returned to Rosalie's office.
She was so still he thought she'd fallen asleep, but her eyes were wide and searched his. "Why are you here?"
"I told you before, I'm a reporter, and I'm working on a financial story with ties to the Port Angeles area."
It was as if she hadn't heard him. "Anyone else would have run screaming. Or snuck out the door at the first opportunity." Her gaze faltered, her eyes closing for longer than a normal blink before opening again. "You must want something pretty badly."
Emmett wanted a couple of things pretty badly. He'd come for a story, perhaps the most important story of his career. A story with huge implications, not just for Denali Group investors, but for the economy as a whole.
And after perhaps the most difficult introduction in history, he wanted Rosalie Hale. What he'd seen awed him. She was magnificent: at the piano, and in her battle against what had happened. She was courage incarnate, right down to her knife, but also vulnerable. Someone he could care for, if she let him.
He set the boots before her and the knife slid out of its loop, clinking on the floor. Their eyes met, and he bent to retrieve it. He slid it back where it belonged and held out the boot for her foot. A hint of a smile ghosted across Rosalie's face as she put her foot in and he zipped. She reached for the other and, with fumbling fingers, managed to pull it on and zip it up.
Then she yawned, and Emmett knew he had to hurry. She couldn't fall asleep until she'd told him where she lived and helped him find it.
"What's your address, Rosalie?"
She sat up straighter. "Why should I tell you that?"
"So I can drive you home."
Rosalie slumped and nodded, a concession of defeat that solidified something in Emmett's heart. He wanted to see her again: to see her walking tall and strong and unafraid.
She quietly gave him the street number and he typed it into the GPS on his phone.
Then he helped her up and she leaned into him so that his arm fit perfectly around her shoulders. Before he realized what he was doing, he kissed her hair, inhaling the pretty scent of woman and shampoo, and marveling for an instant that anything could be so soft. To Emmett's great surprise, Rosalie gave a relieved sigh and wrapped her arms around his waist.
She was loopy with medication, he reminded himself as he led her out of the gallery into the dusk and tucked her into the passenger seat.
By the time he performed the tricks of compression and contortion necessary to get himself behind the wheel of his compact rental, she appeared to be sound asleep. But his heart surged when she sought his hand, pulling it into her lap and tightly holding it with both of hers.
Getting the key into the ignition and the car into gear left-handed was difficult, but he never let her go.
A/N: I'm contributing a one-shot Bella and Edward story to a compilation for a friend and fellow Twific author who needs our help. Mostly A Lurker (http:/www (.) fanfiction (.) net/u/2485360/mostly_a_lurker) is still suffering the effects of a serious workplace injury from several years ago. She's in the process of obtaining a service dog to help her with her daily routine and provide companionship. Mal has found a wonderful collie and a qualified trainer; now all she needs is to cover the costs. You can help! Please visit her blog to find out more info, and see photos of Leo - he's a very handsome dude.
http:/mostlyalurker (.) blogspot (.) com/?zx=b6ff32b569d07681
You don't have to donate money. Airline or hotel miles would help, too!
No matter what you donate, you'll get a great compilation of stories from some amazing authors:
Anais Mark, Bella Flan, eddiebell69, justduckie, Sebastien Robichaud, Lady Tazz, Mrs. The King, Exqusite Edward, DeJean Smith, MG2112, Morgan Locklear, Sarita, wmr1601,javamomma, Duskwatcher, yellowglue, and Savage.
Here's a teaser for my story for this compilation: "She knew something was wrong when he arrived on time and in a crisply pressed shirt she didn't recognize. She used to tease him that he'd be late for his own funeral. But he wasn't hers to tease anymore, and this was Alice's funeral."
Please consider donating to bring Mal and Leo together. This will go a long way to improve Mal's quality of life. Thank you!
P.S. Your kind feedback over the summer has encouraged me to include story recs in my A/Ns in the future. Look for some recs next chapter.