I've put together a short playlist of sorts for the story...just shit I listen to while I write. Mucho inspirato music. Nothing too serious, but the link is www (dot) mixpod (dot) com/playlist/40495109 if you're interested. I'll add more as they come to me.

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight.

A Betting Man

Chapter 10

I can't help but feel a little nervous as I make the long drive to Edward's house. I've been on edge all day just thinking about it. Yet it's not as if I'm doing anything much different from what he did...

Okay, so that's a lie. I plan to sneak into his house and help myself to his kitchen where I'll cook something that may or may not be edible. I'm usually a fairly good cook, but with my nerves I think it's all fair game at this point.

God, I'll be lucky if I don't get arrested for this.

I crank my music loud. So loud I can barely think. I'm deafened by Talking Heads and, while I don't feel much better, at least I'm not talking myself into a tizzy and making myself feel worse.

The drive to his house seems unnaturally short, as though it only took a minute rather than over an hour. I consult my printed mapquest directions, already resigned to the fact that I'll likely get lost and spend an extra hour finding my way again, but surprisingly the directions are dead on. I find it without one single wrong turn or doubt.

The irony is not lost on me.

I turn the stereo down once I reach his neighborhood. The houses are large, set far back from the road with perfectly manicured lawns and shrubbery. There are nice cars in the driveways, accessories to their fancy property. But what sticks out most is that the neighborhood is full of trees – some bend over the road, reaching towards the passing cars, while others protect the yards from the constantly gray haze that passes for sunshine around here.

I like the trees. They're green, bright, and friendly. They seem to wave as I pass and I instantly feel better.

Then I laugh at myself, snorting out loud. What the fuck is wrong with me? I like the trees?

Get a grip, Bella. Time to put your game face on...and quit acting psycho, for crying out loud.

Edward's house is large and beautiful, just like every other home on the street. Two-stories, well-kept and clean. There are no cars in the driveway, but the numbers on the mailbox promise that this is it. I park on the side, near the closed garage, and wonder if leaving my car in plain view is a good idea. Is he close to his neighbors? Will someone call the cops on me?

Closer observation reveals there really isn't anywhere to hide it unless I park it down the street or something. And that just seems time-consuming. Shaking my head, I grab the plastic bags from my car and head to the front door, stepping over his cement steps and eyeing the welcome mat. Aside from it, you wouldn't be able to tell anyone lives here. Sheesh.

I don't bother knocking; instead I reach for the porch light, fumbling around the glass casing, and eventually emerge with the key Emmett told me was hidden there. So far, so good – yet my current fortune doesn't stop my heart from beating in overdrive. I take a deep breath and shove the key into the lock. The door swings open effortlessly, like a silent invitation to step inside. I accept.

The alarm beeps. I punch in the numbers Emmett provided and, to my immense relief, it shuts off. Thank you, Jesus.

The foyer is spacious and immaculately clean; two long, slender windows that are positioned on either side of the door allow some gray sunshine to pool onto the white tile. The tile gives way to beige carpet; I consider kicking off my shoes but eventually shrug and walk right on in, dirty shoes and all. His living room is equally pristine – not a thing is out of place. The couch looks as if it's more for decoration than actual sitting. There's indiscernible artwork on the wall, but no photographs – a stark contrast to my own home. I'm reminded of an ad in a Southern Living magazine rather than the bachelors abode I expected.

I find a staircase which I assume must lead to his bedroom. I get an itch to go explore – to see what dirty little secrets I can unveil – but I persevere and move into the kitchen. Not so surprisingly, it's spotless as well. For now, at least. The wickedness within me cackles.

I set all the bags on the counter and begin to unload my groceries. I wasn't sure what kind of food he'd have here so I brought everything I'd need. But a quick peek in his cabinets won't hurt...

They're stocked to the brim. Enough food for a family of ten. Jesus. And everything is organized as if at a grocery store: the sauces are together, the soups, the pasta, the flour and baking soda. He even has a large spice rack, each small slot individually labeled with names. Hmm...

Emmett's right – he must be OCD. Everything is inhumanely clean and organized here. This is kind of weird – he's always seemed pretty normal when we've hung out. I slam the door shut and decide not to dwell on it.

I preheat his oven and rummage through his cabinets for cooking utensils. Fortunately, I find a roasting pan; I'd brought one of my own, just in case, but I'd much rather use and dirty up his. And why not use his spices as well? I return to the cupboard and start plucking out everything I need.

I hum to myself as I spread everything out on the counter. I need music. Abandoning my task for now, I venture back into the living room, scouring the area for a CD player. He has an enormous entertainment stand. It's a bit intimidating, but a quick peek inside reveals hundreds of CDs hidden away. I go through them and find them to be just as diverse as his iPod list, though I'm sure this is where the music on his iPod came from.

Closer inspection reveals the CDs are organized alphabetically by band and musician. I snicker as I begin plucking them from the shelf and randomly stick them in other places that are completely out of order. I stick Cat Stevens with Pink Floyd and The Velvet Revolver with Coldplay. I pull out his many Beatles CDs and stick them back here and there, no method to my madness. When I'm satisfied everything is adequately disorganized I pull out an Oasis CD and, after much poking and prodding of his CD player, pop it inside. The tune of Wonderwall fills the room. That's much better.

I return to the kitchen and resume my cooking. I rub Edward's spices on the chicken, dice some potatoes and vegetables, and get my rice all ready to go. When that's completed I retrieve the ingredients needed to make Tiramisu - the messiest, tastiest desert I can think of. I start a pot of strong coffee, blend my cream, and cook my egg yolks on a double boiler. By the time I'm done dipping my ladyfingers in the coffee, the kitchen looks as if I've cooked for a family of fifty – there's coffee dribbled on the counter, spilled sugar and spices, egg shells, dirty dishes, empty milk cartons, potato peels, and celery strings strewn about. I stand in the middle of it all like the last warrior, the only survivor in a deadly cooking war.

I feel a tad bit guilty, but I quickly push the feeling aside. I just hope Edward doesn't have a stroke or something when he sees all this. And I am making him a delicious dinner, after all.

With the Tiramisu in the refrigerator and the chicken in the oven, I start my rice. I start thinking about his CD collection while I'm cooking. Was that taking it a little too far? Who in their right mind does something like that? He's going to know something is up when he sees it. With a sigh, I cover my rice and make my way back to the entertainment stand to repair some of the damage. It's starting to get dark outside; I expect he'll be home soon. The thought makes me nervous.

Please don't be angry. Please don't be angry.

I want to shake him up a bit, sure, but if his face gets all red with a throbbing vein or something I may run out of here with my tail between my legs. Oh dear. I hope this wasn't a terrible idea. This isn't as much fun as I thought it would be – I'm just a jumble of nerves. And fuck it all if these CDs aren't impossible to find now that they're out of order. Shit!!

I figure I'm about halfway done when I hear the front door open. I have about six CDs in my hand as I frantically search for the C's and M's while feeling like an incompetent dumb ass. My heart jumps into my chest, but before I can react – destroy the evidence – he's walking into the living room. I'm so anxious I can't even enjoy how delicious he looks in his suit; all I can see is his blatantly puzzled expression as he says, "Bella?" He pauses at the entrance as if scared to venture closer. I'm sure I look like a deer caught in the headlights. "I thought that was your car. What are you doing here?"

He doesn't look pleased or happy or mad – yet. Just...confused.

I quickly set the CDs down and throw my hands up in the air. "Surprise!" I shout with a grin. He just stares at me for a minute, dumbfounded. Holy fuck. "I wanted to surprise you the way you surprised me. I made you dinner! Wanna come see?" I move closer to stand right in front of him; I'm scared to touch him, scared that a throbbing vein is soon to come.

His brow furrows. "You cooked dinner?"

"Yes. Can't you smell it?"

"How did you get in here?" he asks, ignoring my question.

I look down at my feet sheepishly. "Um, well....Emmett sort of helped me."

"Emmett?" He seems confused for another moment; then understanding dawns and he sighs. "Emmett helped you," he repeats, though now it's more of a statement.

"Yes." I'm still staring at the floor like a child awaiting discipline.

"What are you doing with the CDs?" He gestures.

"Um, just looking at them."

"Huh."

He takes off his coat and hangs it up. He still doesn't look happy, not that I ever expected him to. But a quick peek beneath my lashes reveals him in a delicious white shirt and blue tie – suddenly, this all seems worth it. I wonder if I could sneak some pictures of him, just for something to look at when this is all over.

He stares at me as he removes his tie, his expression blank. Great mother of all that is sexy...I can't help but blatantly stare in return. His lips finally turn up in a smirk.

"See something you like?"

I blink rapidly and look away. "Um, no," I lie. His grin only widens; despite my embarrassment, I can't help but be relieved.

Then I remember the state of his kitchen.

"So, you cooked dinner, huh?" he says casually. "What is it?" He moves towards the kitchen and I turn every shade of freaked-the-fuck-out.

"Wait a second, it's not--" He enters before I can stop him and freezes, the casualties of the cooking war on full display in front of him. I gulp as I finish my sentence. "--done."

Oh, no. Please show mercy.

---

EPOV

Deep breaths, Cullen. Deep. Fucking. Breaths.

There's something cooking on the stove; the oven light is on and a dish glows from within. But I can't appreciate those things. I can't get past anything except the spilled food, empty containers and dirty dishes that command complete attention in the center of the kitchen. I can't even see the island; it's disappeared, who knows how many layers below the grime and mess.

How the fuck did this happen? A group of four-year-old kids wouldn't have created a mess this large.

Bella doesn't say anything, though I can sense her presence behind me. I close my eyes and slowly count from ten to zero in my head, willing myself to stay calm. When I open them she's in front of me, a guarded and cautious llook on her face.

"I was going to clean," she says. Her voice is small. Nervous. I sigh and run a hand over my face, through my hair, tugging some of the tension away. It's not worth getting upset over.

"It's fine," I finally assure her, though I can't find it within me to even force a smile. I won't be able to fucking sleep tonight until this is clean. I won't be able to concentrate on anything until it's clean.

I don't really have a right to get mad at her. If it wasn't for me she wouldn't be here, although a tiny little heads up from Emmett would have been nice. I didn't know what to think when I saw her car sitting in my driveway – a million scenarios ran through my head, yet each one ended with the same question: "What the fuck is going on here?"

I'm starting to wonder what I've gotten myself into. No other girl as ever been this ballsy; in fact, no other girl has ever sought Emmett's services like this. But it's strange considering I spent most the day pining over whether or not to see her again. It seems she made the decision for me.

My assertion doesn't leave her convinced.

"How much longer until the food is done?" I ask casually, and this time I think I come off as a little more at ease. She relaxes infinitesimally.

"Um, I just need to—oh shit, the rice!" She flies to the stove and rips the lid off off a pot; a cloud of steam billows around her and into the exhaust fan above the stove. I watch with mild amusement as she pokes and prods at the food while cursing under her breath. "Damn it, it's all fucking burnt," she proclaims. She moves the pot off the heat and begins searching the cabinets.

After a brief moment I ask, "Can I help you find something?"

"I need a plate or a bowl or something." I retrieve one for her and watch as she attempts to scrape the rice remains onto the dish. A thick layer has charred itself to the bottom; it smells rancid, looks even worse, and isn't coming off.

She glances at me, flustered. "This wasn't supposed to happen," she assures. I can't hide my grin.

"You mean you didn't mean to burn the rice?" I ask, feigning ignorance. She rolls her eyes while fighting a smile.

"Hey, fuck off. I'm a good cook."

I raise both hands in submission. "I never said you weren't." You're just messy as fucking hell.

"You were thinking it." She begins scrubbing at the pot with a spoon and I inwardly cringe.

"You should probably soak that," I suggest.

She scoffs and puts it in the sink before filling it with hot water and soap. "See? I would know that except I've never burnt anything before. That sort of talent comes with being a good cook. You, obviously, know all about it." She's teasing me again; it seems she can't get enough.

I grin. "Oh, yeah? So who's cocky now?"

She gasps and turns to me. "I'm not cocky!"

"You're being the epitome of cocky."

"Only a cocky person would be so sure of that."

"So now you're pulling the cocky card on me again?" I'm aghast.

"Hey, you pulled it out first."

"This time," I scoff.

"What do you mean 'this time'? I only pull it out when you're deserving. Which is usually all the time."

I grin at her. How in the world she can make me smile while standing in this disaster of a kitchen, I have no idea. I change the topic, though still remain playful. "So how's the rest of the food, Bella? Still edible?"

She glares at me. I lean against the counter and watch as she grabs two potholders and opens the oven door. "It's done," she quips. I catch a glimpse inside the oven and spot a huge, perfectly browned chicken. The smell wafts through the opening and just manages to overpower the awful rice stench.

"Here, you want me to get that?" I ask. The pan looks heavy and I worry that she'll hurt her wrist even more with the weight. She seems to be thinking the same thing and shoves the potholders into my chest.

"Be my guest."

I pull the chicken from the oven, set it atop the stove, and turn off all the appliances. It smells and looks delicious. Luckily there are potatoes and vegetables in the bottom of the roasting pan – it seems the rice wasn't really even needed.

Bella squeezes in beside me, her warm body brushing against mine, and begins poking at the chicken with a knife and fork, searching for any raw areas. Finding none, she smiles.

"All done."

I nod and pull some plates from the cabinets. I notice the filthy coffee maker with a half pot of coffee remaining; the black liquid lines the counter in dots and dribbles. Sugar granules sparkle and gleam from within the sticky mess. Did she make herself some coffee? And how on earth did she manage to create such a mess?

"Did you have some coffee?" I ask, struggling to remain casual. She looks towards the catastrophe.

"Um, I made desert," she answers uncertainly.

Is that so? It seems she really went all out.

"What did you make?"

"Tiramisu."

"Huh."

"You're supposed to refrigerate it overnight," she awkwardly explains. "But, uh, I never do. It still tastes just as good." She pulls the carving knife from its rack and hands it to me. "Want to carve the bird?"

I nod and wash my hands, then take the knife and get to work, turning my complete attention to the chicken and trying hard to ignore the mess behind me. Bella sets the table in the dining room. When I'm done I head down to the wine cellar and retrieve a bottle of Pinot Blanc. I'm still trying to make sense of the whole situation; I'm genuinely glad to see Bella, yet a nagging in the back of my mind doesn't allow me to enjoy her company. She should be in Seattle watching Lost or engaging with men who don't fuck up constantly. If she knew what I'd done she'd never want to be here.

She's waiting at the table when I return and meets my gaze with a smile. My guilt increases tenfold.

"I just need to open the wine real quick," I explain. She nods; once it's open I pour us both a glass and sit down.

She's silent as we fix our plates. Once we're done she ventures to ask, "Are you mad?"

I can't help but ponder her question. Am I mad about the shit state of my kitchen? Or mad because she snuck into my house when we've known each other less than a week? I'm not sure to which she's referring – possibly both – so I play it cool.

"Mad about what?"

She sighs heavily. "I just feel like this surprise went completely wrong."

"How come?" I ask curiously.

"Well first of all, you caused me to burn the rice." That little sneak! I open my mouth to argue but she quickly cuts me off. "And second of all, you seemed kind of upset about the kitchen. Are you upset?"

"Should I be?" I hasten to ask. She eyes me from across the table.

"That's irrelevant."

"I'm not mad about the kitchen, Bella. Just...surprised."

"Oh. Well, good, because that's what I was going for." Seemingly satisfied, she takes a bite of her food and I watch as her full lips wrap around the fork. She catches me staring and smirks. "See something you like?" she asks, using my earlier words.

I smile and turn to my own food. "Actually, yes."

She quirks an eyebrow. "Oh? Care to share with the rest of the group?"

"It'd be in your best interest if I kept my thoughts to myself, Bella."

She flushes and lowers her eyes. It's strange, but I still like knowing I have this affect on her.

I take a bite of the chicken. Not surprisingly, it's just a tasty as it looks. I compliment the food; the rice really wasn't needed and I tell her so. She smiles gratefully.

"Well, thanks. Sorry I destroyed your home."

"Hey, you're cleaning it all after we eat, right?" I smile to let her know I'm joking – well, sort of. I'll help her, or do it myself, but there's no way I can leave the kitchen in that state. It's hard enough to focus on my food with its presence looming just on the other side of the wall. Sleep would be impossible.

"I'm more of an 'I cook, you clean' type of person," she replies easily.

"Is that right?" I assume she's joking, but I realize either way it doesn't matter; because either way, I'll be in there scrubbing. It's not the way I'd planned to spend my evening, but I guess it's no less than I deserve.

"Mm hmm."

There's a short pause.

"So," I begin conversationally, "you've been conspiring with Emmett."

She chokes on her food and I start, not expecting such a reaction. I'm not sure if it's mere coincidence – if she just got strangled – or if she's genuinely surprised by my words. I stand up and pat her on the back. Her face is starting to turn red.

"Are you okay?" I ask worriedly.

She nods and takes a big sip of her wine. "I'm fine," she finally stutters. "Just went down the wrong way." She wipes a few wayward tears from her eyes. When I'm satisfied she's able to breathe I sit back down. "Um, yeah," she responds. "I told him about the surprise and he gave me your address. Are you mad?" She eyes me cautiously.

"I already told you I wasn't."

"Are you mad at Emmett?"

"No. But first it's you, next it's a serial killer..."

"Next?" She looks affronted. "What do you mean 'next'?"

Shit. "I don't know, Bella. I was just talking," is my half-assed explanation. She gives a short "Hmpfh" and returns to her food, obviously displeased. "You know that's not what I meant," I go on.

"I don't know anything." She chews her food impassively. I can tell she's pissed off.

I shake my head but don't attempt to persuade her further. How can I? She's right; to deny it would only be disrespecting her more than I already have.

When we finish our dinner I hold my breath and brave the kitchen again. Seeing it now is no easier than seeing it the first time, though a little less shocking at least. Bella patters in behind me, completely at ease with the mess. She slaps me on the back, a trait more characteristic of Emmett, and says, "Looks like you have your work cut out for you." When I catch her gaze I see that she's grinning.

I shrug, feigning nonchalance. "As long as I have you to keep me company."

"Nah, I think I might go."

"Is that right?" I raise my eyebrows. "Just eat and run, huh?"

She stretches and rubs her belly; the hem of her shirt rises up, exposing two inches of creamy skin. I stealthily peek, trying to avoid being caught again, but it's pretty apparent I have the shittiest luck in Washington. Bella gasps.

"You're quite a Peeping Tom, aren't you?" she accuses.

I scoff as I start gathering up the dirty dishes. "Like you're one to talk." I pile each dish around the sink, hoping to knock out the basics before tackling the sticky counters. It's going to take all night to clean up this mess. I shake my head, still unable to believe one person can make such a mess.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you have a staring problem."

"I do not!"

She follows behind me, gathering up dishes and trash, sorting them appropriately. Our banter continues as we work side by side.

"I believe you do, actually. In fact, your eyes went a little unfocused and I think you even drooled a little..."

Suddenly there's a sharp 'Pop!' and I feel a stinging pain on my leg, just below my ass. It doesn't hurt, really, but it's unpleasant and causes me to jump about a foot in the air. When I turn around I see Bella twisting the dish towel, rearing to strike again. Her face is lowered, her gaze malicious; I just manage to dodge the next attack. The towel hits nothing but air, the pop resonating across the kitchen.

"Agh! What the fuck are you doing?" I keep a good five feet of space between us. Bella laughs, her eyes bright and warm.

"What's wrong, Eduardo? Did that hurt?" She makes a sad face at me as though she's sympathetic, but we both know that's pure blasphemy.

"Bella, it would be in your best interest to drop the towel now," I warn, my voice low. Her grin only widens.

"Well that's too bad, Edward, because I hardly ever do anything that's in my best interest." She's using my words from last night. I remember them clearly.

"I can't clean while your sneaky ass has that towel, Bella. You've got five seconds."

She scoffs. "Or what?"

I ignore her. "Five." She begins twisting the towel again, her brown eyes locked on mine. "Four." More twisting. "Three." Twist, twist, twist. "Two." She pops the towel at my leg; I anticipate her attack, flip on the cold water in the sink, and immediately blast her using the spray hose. She gets a wave of icy water straight to the face and screams.

"Argh! Damn it!!" Rather than run she takes me by complete surprise and charges, the towel all but abandoned, and grabs my hand that's still gripping the nozzle. She tries to take the hose from me but I'm stronger; the water continues to spray on her chest, face, up in the air, the walls.

"Let go!" I holler between laughs.

"No!!"

"Bella!"

Through an unfortunate turn of events she manages to twist my hand around, causing the water to hit me in the face. Then the stove. Then the refrigerator. We wrestle back and forth, each tugging at the hose, both soaked and refusing to relent.

"Truce!" she begins screaming. "Truce!"

"You first!"

"No! On three!"

"One..." I begin.

"Two..." she continues.

"Three!"

She releases my hand and steps back. The water squirts for one more brief moment before I release the nozzle, then it sputters and dies. We're both sopping wet, chests heaving. Water drips from every surface in sight. All the spilled spices and sugar on the counter have effectively been eliminated. We stand in a large puddle on the floor.

Bella looks like she's just gone for a swim. Her hair is a dripping mess and her clothes cling to her body. I can see her nipples through her shirt; I immediately have a lapse in judgment and stare again, reverting back to the whole cause of this fiasco. I feel myself grow hard, straining uncomfortably against my wet slacks. Bella looks towards the point of my focus and gasps, hastily covering her chest with her arms. I at least have the decency to feel ashamed.

"Sorry," I mumble, quickly looking away.

Still breathing heavily, Bella replies, "I told you you're a Peeping Tom."

I smile – how can I not? So long as her voice box remains intact, there will never be a dull moment when snarky little Bella Swan is near.

Just to tease her, I hold up the hose, which is still in my hand but currently not spraying, as a warning. Her eyes widen upon her assessment.

"We called a truce," she reminds me forcefully.

The water is still running full force in the sink. I reach over and turn it off. "Consider that a free lesson, Bella."

"A lesson? You're just as wet as I am," she sates, incredulous.

A perverted comment regarding her nipples and possibly other anatomy springs hot and ready into my mind, but I force it back. I acquiescence. "True. You did flood my kitchen, as well."

"Correction: you flooded your kitchen."

"You started it."

"You were making fun of me."

I raise my eyebrows, incredulous. "You called me a Peeping Tom. Twice."

She sighs loudly, shifting on her feet. The water moves and slurps under her weight. "Look, do you have like...a shirt I could put on or something?" She gestures towards her chest, where her arms are still tightly locked. I smirk at her.

"I think I prefer you this way."

"Edward!" She glares at me.

"Calm down, prima donna. I'll get your shirt." She shuffles aside as I move past and I can't help but smile. My kitchen has been destroyed, twice – a catastrophe within itself – but miraculously, I'm not even a tiny bit angry right now.

She watches me go, hesitating in the kitchen. "You coming?" I ask her. "There's a bathroom upstairs you can use."

"Um, yeah." She slowly follows. Halfway up the stairs she says, "Sorry about your kitchen."

"Eh – I was just thinking I didn't really need a kitchen."

She giggles; I smile.

"I hope your suit wasn't dry-clean only," she goes on.

"It is, but I suppose I'll live." We reach the top of the stairs. I enter my bedroom for the clothes, not inviting her inside nor instructing her to wait for me. It's not a huge deal either way, but I don't know what would be more appropriate and therefore I'm silent. Not surprisingly, she opts to hover in the doorway, her wide eyes carefully assessing my room from a safe distance.

I pull out sweatpants and a t-shirt from my dresser drawer. I'm in and out in less than a minute.

"The bathroom is just down the hall," I say, pointing. "There are towels in the cupboard in there." She nods and retreats with the clothes. When she's gone I disappear into my bedroom and shut the door behind me.

My erection's only grown more painful. It's pathetic how easily aroused I am – just seeing Bella in wet clothes has nearly done me in. I'd probably make a fool of myself if I ever did see her naked...not that I will. Fuck, I still don't know. Decisions need to be made. A few days away from Bella would probably do me good. It would give me time to think.

I unzip my pants, relieving some of the tension on my cock. It's not enough. What I wouldn't give for a few minutes to relieve this problem, yet there's not enough time. And how huge of a pervert would that make me? Secretly jacking off while Bella is just a few feet down the hall...

I've already decided I'm not making anymore moves on her. Not tonight, at least; not until I've had time to sort through my problems. With a sigh I quickly strip out of my clothes and, without even bothering to dry off, pull on a pair of jeans and a shirt. The fabric sticks to me uncomfortably. The discomfort is a welcome distraction.

Sorry to split this up folks, but it's already over 5K with no end in sight. As always, thank you to all my wonderful readers and reviewers and thanks to ms_ambrosia for her kick ass beta skills. Love you guys.

So what do you think of Eduardo's vow to be a good boy...for tonight, at least? Hmm...

Feel free to come chat, scheme, and play at the twilighted thread at www (dot) twilighted (dot) ?f=44&p=855440. I post teasers when I have them.

-mybluesky