Heroin and Some Deep Shit
Peter's Point of View
I don't need Sparkle Boy to tell me what this is about. The pup's pissed off about me and Bella. I guess I ruined his plans of a happy family with a litter of pups. Just the thought of him with her sets my blood to boil. It's all I can do to keep my rage in check.
I let out a warning growl. "I'm warnin' ya, dog. I won't back down." The dumb mutt takes that as his cue to attack. He springs forth, mouth agape and aimed at my throat. I wait, giving him the false satisfaction that he might actually have me, but then side step at the last moment. A heap of matted fur goes flying over my shoulder and careens headfirst into the packed ground. Taking advantage of its distraction, I grab a hind leg, and with the flick of my wrist, I feel the tendons and bones snap sickly. The wolf bellows in agony and begins to shake again. The violent shaking is accompanied by more crunching and cracking noises as the wolf's skin begins to stretch and move. If I didn't know any better, I'd think that creature from Alien was going to burst out of its chest any second now.
The wolf's howl of pain turns from bestial to human. Soon, there's a naked Indian with a compound fracture to his left leg. The white of bone stands out in the moonlight and the smell of its blood is even more revolting than I could have imagined.
"Fuck!" Jake screams, his voice cracking at the end. "Fuck it hurts! Mother … fucker! You broke my fucking leg!" He moans and rolls on the ground, gripping his leg and glaring at my accusingly. I'm completely at a loss here. Do I say sorry? I really don't regret doing it. The dog wanted a fight and it got what it asked for, plain and simple. Deciding the best course of action, I pull out my cell phone and consider dialing Carlisle. The problem is the dumb wolf won't quit his yapping and bellyaching.
"Can ya keep it down?" I snap at the mutt, but he doesn't let up.
"Alright, but you've forced me to do this." I kneel down next to his head, grabbing a handful of oily black hair. He immediately squeals in fear and claws at my hands.
"What are you doing?" He half shrieks, half squeaks.
"Shuttin' ya up." And with that, I pound his head into the ground with just enough force to knock him out—effectively shutting his ass up.
I dial Carlisle and explain the situation. He's shocked when I tell him what happened. I'm not sure if the shock is because I broke the wolf's leg or that I didn't just leave it in the woods. I'm actually surprised that the Clairvoyant Cupie doll hasn't already told him what's happened.
I hear Carlisle approaching less than two minutes after my call. He arrives on scene with his little black bag and assesses the damage.
"He attacked you on our territory?" His tone is incredulous. Obviously he just assumes I'm the instigator.
"Yup." Carlisle shakes his head at my reply and returns to his ministrations.
"You got this, Doc? 'Cause I still need to hunt before my shift at the hospital tomorrow." There's no point in me standing here like an idiot.
He hesitates to answer me. "Sure, son."
I waste no time and relieve myself from the awkward situation. Idly, I wonder if Bella will be pissed at me when she finds out I broke the dog's leg. It's a strange notion—worrying that she might be upset with me. I know my actions were completely justified. Beyond that, I exercised restraint by leaving the bastard alive. He was obviously going for a kill shot, and I just broke a limb—something that will heal. I have half a mind to ask Carlisle to set the bones off a little. It'll serve him right to walk with a limp for the rest of his life. Not that goodly Carlisle would even consider it for a moment. One can dream.
Hell, maybe the mutt will be too embarrassed to mention it to her. I shake away the strange thoughts that plague my mind. I need a clear head for hunting. Distraction leads to sloppiness, and I have better table manners than that.
I arrive in a dark alley in a nearly vacant industrial section of town. This area of Seattle has become my preferred hunting ground. There's always a user or two passed out and face down in their own vomit. Tonight proves no different. In the distance, I see a still form lying in the middle of the alley. The heartbeat is audible, but I know the person isn't simply asleep. No one in their right mind would pick that spot as a good place for a little shut eye—not with the feces-infested water that diverges there on its course toward the sewer system.
The stench is something you grow accustomed to. Besides, the blood of a user is still fillet mignon compared to the tofu "veg diet" the Cullens eat. If I concentrate hard enough on the smell of blood, everything else melts into the background. I discover this human has a thing for heroin. Excuse me, she has a thing for heroin. Now that I'm close enough, it's easy to discern the curve of the female's hips, even underneath the oversized coat she's wearing. There's usually a noticeable difference in the scents of males and females, but when your blood is a potent cocktail of alcohol and heroin, it drowns out the subtle female aroma. This is usually a helpful thing. The less you know about your food, the less it bothers you afterward.
I roll her over and nearly stumble backwards at the vision before me. Wide brown eyes look up at me from underneath a mess of wild brown hair. Her mouth parts in surprise, and a blush colors the pale skin of her cheeks. It's too much for me to take. She looks too much like her—I can't.
A furious growl escapes me. I know she isn't Bella, but I still can't bring myself to hurt her—to open up her veins and drain her until those brown eyes glaze over.
The girl scurries away from me, trying to put the wall at her back. I can only imagine what kind of devil I must look like in her drug-induced state. As I continue to stare at her as she cowers in fear, I realize that the similarities between her and my Bella are few. This girl's eyes have a lackluster appearance, and her hair looks as dry as a haystack. I should be able to drain her. It's just a meal, nothing more. I'd be doing the girl a favor by saving her from all the evils of this world that she's gotten herself into.
I take a step closer, and she coils even smaller, pressing herself hard against the metal building. Her fear is palpable, and this is the point where I would usually be salivating venom at the intensified smell of her blood—but there's nothing. What the fuck is wrong with me?
I grind my jaw shut and clench my fists closed so tightly that I can feel fissures form around my knuckles. I need to leave. Now. I don't need an audience to my mental turmoil.
There's no need to keep the human façade for someone who is so far down the rabbit hole that they may never surface. All I'll be to her is a drug-induced trip that she probably won't even remember. If only I could forget her so easily. There are more than a handful of memories that I'd like to wash away.
After I drain a vagrant whose blood is more like two parts Jack Daniels to one part plasma, I have the overwhelming urge to see Bella. This really isn't something out of the ordinary, but that heroin addict really struck a nerve with me. I glance at my watch, but it's 2:30 in the morning, and humans need their sleep.
Bella's point of view
"Two thousand, three-hundred and forty-four bottles of beer of the wall, two—hell, who do I think I'm kidding? This isn't working!" It's past midnight, and I'm still wide awake, my mind in turbo overdrive.
I blame Ang. Our last conversation started the wheels turning in my brain, and now I can't shut the damned thing off. I'm going to be fucking worthless tomorrow if I don't get some sleep.
'No strings attached fucking.'
The truth in those words didn't dawn on me until I finished my post-sex Happy Meal earlier tonight. Hhmm, I guess it was literally a 'Happy' meal. And see, there I go again. Sex, sex sex. It's all I can think about when I'm with Peter. Hell, it's pretty much all I can think about when I'm not with Peter. I'm sure it doesn't help that his fucking name is slang for penis.
Damn it, why do I have to be such a girl? Why can't I have absolutely mind-blowing sex without having to bring feelings into the equation? I can't delude myself into thinking that what Peter and I have going on is exclusive. I'm probably nothing more than a fuck buddy to him. That's just the reality of it.
I mean, what kind of guy screws someone in a utility closet and then carries out the rest of his work shift like nothing happened? The kind of guy who's used to screwing random people in utility closets. That's fucking who. I choke on a broken sob that threatens to bubble out of my throat. The ache is back in my chest, too. I can't believe I've been reduced to a sniveling … girl.
"Don't cry, you idiot. Suck it up, Bella." My pep talk isn't working.
"I am truly pathetic," I mumble face down into my pillow. The whole girly, emotional thing is not me, and I don't know how to deal with any of it.
There's a knock at the door and my head whips around in panic, causing the scenery to blur.
"Bells, it's past midnight. You okay?" It's Charlie. I forget about how much of a light sleeper he is. It must be that police training.
"Sorry, Dad. I can't sleep."
"Can you try to keep it down? Uh … er … maybe some warm milk will help. Or get some turkey from the fridge. The tryptophan is supposed to help you sleep."
"Okay." Yeah, just what I want—cold lunch meat and warm milk. I hear his door close and plop back down on my bed. My mind jumps right back into the thick of it again, not missing a beat.
The thought of Peter with someone else makes my stomach do jumping jacks. Jealousy is new to me, and we aren't getting along too well.
I can try to fool myself into thinking that he might actually have feelings for me. After all, he has a cute nickname for me. That should say something, right? Or maybe that's just how he remembers me among all the other women he's currently banging.
There's not any gossip going on about him at work, and that's saying a lot. Nurses like to gossip more than any other group of people on this planet. You'd think that HIPPA would get in the way of that, but it doesn't seem to faze them one bit. It seems like every day there's a new rumor going around about Dr. McDreamy. Strangely though, there's not even a peep about my McSteamy. He can't be boning people left and right at work and stay completely under the radar. Those women are hawks. They miss nothing.
I glance at the clock on my nightstand. It's now two thirty in the morning. I lie back on my bed with a sigh, but not before a shiny, silver object calls out to me. I'm trying to avoid thinking about it, but it's not working.
I want to call him. I want to hear his voice and have him tell me that everything is okay. I need to hear him say he lo—likes me. Only me.
Is it normal to have feelings about someone you barely know? Is this what it's like to rebound? I'm ashamed at how little I know about this man who I've screwed three times. In fact, I've made a list. Yes, I'm a list person. I have lists to organize my lists. They help me organize my brain, and right now, it's in dire need of organization.
So here it is:
1. He's a vampire.
2. His name is Peter … last name, no clue.
3. He's from Texas? Just an educated guess here.
4. He's Jasper's "brother." Not sure of the exact relation.
5. He's going through a "rough time."
6. He drinks human blood.
7. He has scars all over his body.
8. His eyes turn black when he's hungry or turned on.
9. I can dig my nails into his back all I want and it won't hurt him.
10. He has a very talented tongue, and hands, and …
That's the point where my list becomes counter-productive. When distraction doesn't help, and neither does writing it down, the only option I'm left with is talking it out.
I'm tempted to call Ang, but she has school in the morning, so it wouldn't be right to wake her up. In a way, it is her fault that I'm still awake. In reality, she just made me aware of details my mind was conveniently avoiding.
The stupid shiny, silver phone catches my eye again, making my heart flutter. I shouldn't call him. I'm not rational right now. They last thing I need to do is have a mental breakdown while I'm talking to him. That typically doesn't bode well for a new relationship—if that's what we can call this thing we have going on here.
On the other hand, is it right to leave him blissfully unaware of the mental turmoil that he's causing me? No, I need to call him.
I swipe the shiny phone from my nightstand and flip it open. His name is glaring back at me in purple text. Taking a deep breath and holding it, I dial Peter. There's a fraction of a ring before I hear his voice—his incredibly smooth, sexy voice.
"Bella? Is something wrong?" He sounds shocked, surprised, and concerned all wrapped in one.
"Um, no. I—I just wanted to … to talk." I stutter, trying to keep my voice steady.
"Do you want me to come over?"
"Yes—I'm mean, no. Er … I mean, I do want you to come over, which is why you shouldn't."
"Am I supposed to understand what that means?" He chuckles. It's a sexy, husky sound.
"No." I sigh. "I don't even understand it. It's just better that you stay there … wherever there is, and I stay here."
"You should be asleep. Do you know what time it is?"
"Yes, I know. I just needed to talk to you."
"Well, I'm all yours."
I laugh at his choice of words. "That's what I was hoping you'd say."
"You're makin' me wish I was Edward. And that's not somethin' I thought I'd ever say. I can't read yer mind, belle, and frankly, yer not makin' a whole lot of sense. Are you sure something isn't wrong?"
"I'm not sure about anything anymore, Peter. I know that doesn't make any sense to you, but I'll try my best to explain myself." I take a deep breath. "What is going on between us?"
There's silence on the other end for a long while, long enough for my stomach to churn and the aching pain to start in my chest.
"I don't know how to answer that," he finally admits. I feel my heart fall, and the ache turns into a stabbing, throbbing pain in my chest. Hot tears flood my eyes. I'm not sure how long I can hold on before the flood gates open to a whole new world of hurt.
"Do you … like me?" I can barely hear my own voice over the thudding of my heart. I'm waiting impatiently for his response, and when it comes, it's almost too much for me to take.
He laughs. Laughs!
"Bella, what I feel for you it's …" Peter struggles with his words. He's probably trying to let me down easy. The whole it's-not-you-it's-me-bit. "Well, it goes deeper than likin' you."
Now it's my turn for the long pause while I process what just happened. Neurons are firing, but nothing makes any sense upstairs.
"Come again?" I squeak.
"I'd rather talk about this in person." There's a strange quality to his voice.
"Well, that's a problem, 'cause when we're together there's not usually much talking going on."
"Huh, well I guess yer right about that. I just can't help myself around you. All good intentions go right out the window."
"I know the feeling. Can you just answer one question for me tonight?" It's the thing that's been bouncing around in my head, making it impossible to concentrate on anything else.
"Shoot."
I screw my eyes closed and ball my fists. I've got to spit this out before I lose my gumption.
"Is there anyone else?" I blurt.
"Bella." His tone is chastising. "Come to the window." I immediately look toward my window, but I don't see Peter.
"This isn't a good idea, Peter."
"What I have to say should be said in person, my belle. I promise I'll be on my best behavior." I walk up to the window and see Peter standing outside. His right hand is holding the phone to his ear, while the left is crossed over his chest. "Cross my heart."
I can't help the smile that comes to my face at the sight of him. He's still wearing the yummy wife beater and tight, penis-hugging jeans.
"Okay, you can come up, but you need to be quiet," I warn him.
"Yes, I haven't forgotten your father's extra-sensory hearing."
In a flash, he scales the tree and is at my window, perched on its ledge. I slowly open the window, hoping that the WD-40 did the trick. To my relief, it slides open noiselessly.
Peter is inside in a heartbeat. I feel hands on my shoulder and he spins me around to face him. His burgundy eyes search my own.
"Bella, there isn't—nor will there ever be—anyone else but you." I can't believe what I am hearing. It didn't seem to make sense. We must be trapped in some weird, alternate reality where everything really does work out to my favor.
"Am I dreaming?" I pinch my own arm, and sure enough, I can feel it. Peter chuckles at my display.
"No, you're not dreamin', but you should be. It's way past my human's bedtime," he whispers.
I take his large, cold hand in mine and lead him toward my bed. His eyebrow quirks, and I immediately know where his thoughts are going. I climb into bed, pull my old quilt up over me, and scooch over as far as I can without falling off the bed. I pat the left side, and Peter gingerly sits down next to me, his back against the headboard. The mattress groans under his considerable weight.
He still has a confused expression on his face.
"Stay with me until I fall asleep?" I ask as I wrap my arm around him and settle my head on his lap. It's not exactly as comfortable as I would have thought. It's more like snuggling up against a rock. Not to mention, his crotch is literally inches away from my face, and I have to force myself not to think about it.
"So, Texas, is that where you're from?" I need a distraction. His cold belt buckle that's currently pressed against my right cheek makes me think of something. Since it doesn't look like I'm going to be catching any shuteye for the time being, I should add a few things to my list.
"Yes, originally, I'm from Texas. Brownsville, Texas. I was born Peter Lee Barrett in January of eighteen forty-eight. The third child of John and Clara Barrett. My whole human existence revolved around wars. First, it was the Mexican-American War, later the Civil War, and then the Blood Wars of the South …"
Peter went on to tell me his life story—both of them. Most of his human memories were limited, and I got the feeling that he left out a lot when he talked about his time with Jasper and Maria in Mexico. I only hoped that as time went on, he'd realize that he could share everything with me—even the really shitty stuff.
Then, there was Charlotte. He had this faraway look in his eyes when he talked about her. His pain had been too real for me to feel jealous over the memory of her. It had also helped that he repeatedly reassured me that even though he thought he had truly loved her—had loved her to what he thought was his fullest—there's no comparison to how he felt for me. That had been the point where I became a total girl and sobbed into his chest like a little bitch. He had distressed over my reaction, saying he had "trouble understandin' human's reactions," but he calmed down once I explained that they were happy tears. I saw the gears in his mind working—logging that for future reference.
I can tell he's on the verge of something really heavy as the sun began to rise—the bastard. No matter how many times I blink and try to force my eyes to stay open, I can't. Charlie begins to shuffle around his room, putting the final nail in the proverbial coffin.
Peter ducks out the window, leaving me with a kiss and a promise to see me later. Then, I got the most blissfully deep sleep that I think I've ever had in my life. Well, besides that night after the peyote incident.
Anyway, I wake up refreshed and ready for the day, or afternoon, at the ass-crack of 3:15.