Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all character names. The plot belongs to the author.

No copyright infringement is intended.

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If you think you've won, you've never seen me change the game that we have been playing.
I've seen diamonds cut through harder men, than you yourself, but if you must pretend - you may meet your end.
Arm yourself because no one else here will save you...

~You Know My Name by Chris Cornell

***EPOV***

My phone is ringing.

The shrill chirp is all there is.

And that chair.

The chair that held her warm body a mere half-second ago.

My phone trills again and goes silent just as Emmett appears in my open doorway. He is speaking before he even sets his eyes on me. "Yo, Ed-man. Not here, dude. We have-" I can only imagine what I must look like, because he goes silent when he sees my face.

When he sees I haven't been getting Bella Swan off in my office during business hours; when he sees my hand still holding the pen I used to write her check, my checkbook lying open on the blotter.

I look up at him, through him, seeing myself reflected in his eyes. My bewilderment, my lust, my shame. My fear.

His brow furrows as his head cocks to the side. "Was that – Bella, from next door?"

I feel my head shaking. It should be a nod, but it's not. It's shaking, trying to clear away this heavy atmosphere clinging to me on this stiff neck. Attempting to break my astonishment and my disorientation.

"Huh." He seems almost as perplexed as I feel. I think he's going to ask me what the fuck I did now, but what he asks is, "You okay?"

I don't think so. But I nod. He disappears and I am again staring at the recently vacated chair, my mind a blur. I distinctly recall the first time she sat in it, her nerves obviously frayed, her eyes shadowed, her face worried. Because a thousand dollars in damages means something to Bella. A huge hit to her income. I didn't know then how hard she works, how much she works.

I remember being fascinated by the blush that stained her face as she watched me. Fascinated, and a little sorry for her.

I remember wondering if her chest was flushed too.

I remember telling her that her face was red and the snide expression she gave me.

It seems like so long ago. It seems like a different person interacting with her. Not this person sitting here. I remember thinking I could get in her pants inside of a week and why bother.

What changed? When did her blush make the transition from uncomfortably embarrassing to uncomfortably erotic? When did the hollow at her throat become a place I want to press my fingers? When did the curve of her shoulders and the delicate bend of her neck become different than that of any other woman?

When did all the pieces of her become so precious to me?

Her hands aren't made up of carpals and metacarpals, fingers, knuckles, nails. They are her touch.

Her feet are her motive energy, her arms are her embrace, her body is a shelter.

Her rhythm is her soul, her eyes are her heart - brave and on display.

When did Bella cease to be a collection of parts I could use and become a whole person, wholly exceptional? Special.

She was so indifferent to me for so long.

I think I noticed her smile first, that day in her office, when she laughed and told me she didn't hit Debbie Kaimana's car. Then it was her scent. She smelled so good. Every time she was near me, it was like her temperature would rise, heating her scent and sending it out like a smoke signal. Like how you know when someone in your neighborhood is bar-b-quing, even if they are blocks away.

I began to wonder if she would blush at my touch, and what her eyes would look like rolled back in her head, her toes curled into little claws, her spine arching with the force of her pleasure.

I know what it looks like now.

I can feel her through the thin barriers of the walls that separate us, quietly fuming in her office.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry. A million times, I'm sorry.

But it had to be done.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Find that thing that keeps the panic at bay.

When I close my eyes, all I see is her face. Her laughing eyes, muted in that moment when I escaped the bedroom and saw her there. How they changed. How they shared my pain as she reached for me. Her silent statement that it didn't matter what I had just done, she would still hold me if I needed her to.

Is it her empathy that makes her different? Was it her selfless compassion in that moment that showed me just how different she is? That she feels suffering deeply, as I do?

Standing there, I didn't want any part of me to touch her. I remember thinking I was coated in the glue of Irina's easy body. That Bella would get entangled in it, like a web comprised of every other woman I've ever fucked.

So I told her to stay away.

My lifetime of pain in that one sentence. All of it reflected in her face. Her heartbreak. All over her fucking face, echoed now inside me. Persistently reminding me that I'm a fucking shit.

I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, pushing until it hurts. Until my eyes feel compressed and angry, until all the capillaries of my eyelids become a rage of red, blocking out the kaleidoscope of her face. Her face when she sings with all her tentative courage, when she uses disco-force, when she is tired, when she is determined, when she works… when she smiles, when she sleeps, when I turn her into my prey with a look, when I feast on her with my mouth. Her face in all those moments, and now… at the center, her face when she mocks me. When she shames me with my own behavior.

I feel cheated in so many ways. Like I've seen her climax without getting to participate. Like I've handed her the tool with which she can torment me any time she chooses. Like I've created the tool I can torment myself with. Like I've smashed the salvation I could have had with her.

Like I've created a whole new arena of shit I will have to get through each day.

I knew I could feel anger and lust and ego and self-recrimination all at one time. I didn't know I could also feel admiration.

Is this what it's like? Have I already integrated who she is into me to the point where I am proud of her in this moment? Proud of her grit and her creativity, her fire, her resolve, her defiant fearlessness? And envious… envious of all that she is and her effortless existence. Proud and rock-hard, hating myself, not wanting to stop listening to the sounds she made, not wanting to hear her keep making them.

Not wanting to hear, ever again, any other woman cry for me like that. Knowing that I will. Knowing that I can't change.

Not wanting to hear Bella do it the way that she did, in imitation of a woman that means nothing to me. Not wanting it and wanting to make it real. Wanting to make it genuine. Not being able to.

Because turning her intense individuality into something shared requires a different kind of give and take. I want to have her, but whatever I take needs to be given back. I have no give in me.

Paralyzed here, stuck, hateful and lustful and foolish.

I spent yesterday torturing myself with all her possible reactions. Her sulking or screaming at me. Her slapping my face. Her ignoring me. I feared all of them. I prepared myself for the onslaught of however she chose to deal with it.

I wasn't ready. Not for that.

Not to see her like that. Her face a different construct of her hot determination. My cock, a divining rod showing me what I want most, ignoring my simultaneous shame. How I throbbed in that moment, while wanting to disown everything that I am. Disgusted with myself, while still imagining myself encased within her, imagining her undulating atop me.

The last week has felt like a marathon. I'm exhausted from the daily battle of eat, drink, dream, breathe, fighting the invasion of her into my every moment. Bella, Bella, Bella.

Then Saturday, something in me made a choice. It started as an experiment, an opportunity to contain her within my walls, to watch her work and see if I couldn't reconnect with the casual interest I felt at the beginning. The start of all of this, when she flared indignantly and asked me if I was human, when I decided to prod her by taking her parking spot, just to see what I got. I just needed to get back to THAT, and away from how right it felt to carry her to her bed, to wake to her comfort. To help myself reassert distance and just see… if I even could. I just wanted to see.

And then, somewhere, I lost it.

Somewhere between her dark hair and Irina's. Somewhere tangled in Bella's watchful dark eyes. Somewhere after she pushed me away. Somewhere before I pushed back.

Pushing her away. It all made sense, in that fucked up little moment. That moment where I understood that Bella should want nothing to do with someone like me. That I could make it so, that I could create a force-field that would absolutely keep her out. I could construct a wall of fucking in a new way. I could use that wall, I could build it around me. To protect her.

Whatever I am, all of me, is for… To protect her.

Now, in the light of this day… I am not sure I need to protect Bella from anything. And in this moment, in this still quiet moment, she is all that I want. My understanding of my own evil, my malevolence, has faded into the sorrowful resignation of telling myself that this is still better. That I have nothing to offer. That Bella deserves more than this greedy, selfish man.

She is the fucking tree, the giving tree, and I am not going to wear her down to a stump for me to sit on. I might have scraped the bark of her protective encasing, but only that. She can move on and give her generous self to someone worthy.

I tell myself this now, but all I want to do is take it all back.

All I want to do is reach backwards, a mere forty-eight hours, and give myself the opportunity to ignore Irina and her salacious whispers. I only blurrily remember all the words she used to suggest that she could occupy my whole night with her body. I only vaguely remember the moment when I thought that would be a good idea.

It was a good idea.

It was an awful idea, but it was… well, it's what I've done.

I itch to chase after Bella and fling open the door to her office. I want to go to my knees. I want to shower her with all the cliché gifts of my remorse. I want to physically place her upon the pedestal and tell her that she lives there. I want to open my chest and show her how my heart beats differently because of her. I want to solemnly swear that I will never, ever hurt her like that again. I want to do all that and more. I want to explain all my fucked up logic to her and have her accept it. Have her accept what I have to give, which is nothing. A big, empty nothing… but all of it for her.

But I won't. She will get over this. And maybe, in time, so will I.

I clear my throat and try to see my desk. I try to make sense of the claim filling my computer screen. This office and this keyboard and this fucking phone that is ringing again. None of it matters.

The phone display says State Farm.

Great.

I pick up the receiver and give my hateful line, and as soon as I hear the Scottish accent on the other end, I know what he wants. He wants Bella.

I should have let it go to voicemail. We exchange good mornings and he cuts right to the proverbial chase.

"So, that gerrl, the one who was working at your party, Saturday night. Bella. Do you remember her?"

Do I fucking remember her?

When am I not fucking remembering Bella Swan?

"Yes, what about her?"

"Weeel. I was thinking of calling her. I asked Rosie, and she said I should call you, ferrrst. You might have some claim to her?"

"Rose is mistaken."

"Ahhh aye. That's what I thought. I thought it was unlikely, considering how she was werrking for ye, and all."

Right. Because a decent man doesn't indenture his woman to him, doesn't make her wait on his guests. Because a man like Alec would never treat his woman that way. He would never subject her to the sounds of his intoxicated rutting with a tweaked out floozy. He would have a calm grown up discussion with her about… I don't know. Boundaries or some shit. I wonder exactly how Alec would treat a woman and the memory of Bella's faked climax fills my mind. Her fingers gripping the chair, bracing herself against her advancing blush as it found her face and flooded it. Her gripping his back, the two of them together, the thought of it, makes me want to put my fist through something. Like his face.

"Mmhmm."

"So, you don't mind, then?"

Can he hear how my teeth are gritted in anger when I say, "No. I don't mind."

"Awesome."

Awesome.

...

(((HiFi)))

...

I can't go home. I hate being there. Now, in a new and completely encompassing way.

I lock up the suite and make my way out of the building. It's late. The hallway is dim, lit only by the emergency lighting that comes on after eight p.m. The tedium and length of this day is still better than the aftermath that is my condo. I am the aftermath, really. The condo is fine. Bella left it pristine.

Speaking of.

She just came out of the bathroom down the hall and is walking towards the exit. I don't think she saw me. I am considering slowing my pace when she whirls around. Her hair fans out and comes to rest over one shoulder.

I stop and we stare at one another. Her face is peaceful. Her body is that light tension that accompanies lift off. And then she is walking towards me. I take an immediate step back and she laughs, coming to a stop directly in front of me. Her chin tilted up, her face hiding nothing.

My throat feels tight, so I clear it. "Bella."

"Edward."

"You're working late."

"As are you."

I nod.

"Do you want to get dinner?"

What the fuck? I lift a brow and before I've had time to consider what my appropriate response to this invitation should be, I ask, "With you?"

God, my tone is so ugly. Good. Her lips purse as she pulls them into her mouth. Her quick blink shows me her surprise. But, as usual, she recovers fast. I can tell she is contemplating everything. Our whole history, Saturday, my face, my tone, this moment, as she tilts her beautiful head gently to the side and softly says, "Scores of women, so many you can't count them all, but not me?"

I am trying, really trying, to remember any of them as I look into her questioning eyes.

She is studying my face. I don't know what she is looking for, what she wants from me. But she isn't going to find it here. "Did you do that, did you do Irina…? Did you do her on purpose, Edward?"

I am an ice cold mask. "I don't know what you mean."

She looks at me a moment longer, her gaze darting between my eyes. Searching. Then she turns, not even saying good night to me, as she strides purposefully to the door. I stand watching it slowly close behind her.

I need oblivion. I need distraction. Saliva gathers in my mouth, anticipating this evening's alcohol. I need a whiskey and a woman.

...

(((HiFi)))

...

I drag myself out of bed the next morning and into a long, wickedly hot shower. My stomach is cinched up, right against my uvula, and I gag while brushing my teeth. I run my fingers over my eyebrows, assuming that they cooperate. My mirror reflects thousands of me, splintering my face into abrupt pieces. I only slightly remember the moment of impact when I drove my fist into my own reflection last night. My whole left hand aches, the knuckles particularly, which are stiff and bloodied.

I see myself all the time. Everywhere I go. I've never so acutely seen all the ways I've failed myself, as I did last night.

My search was comical, my apathy appalling. There is nothing out there, in those exotic nightclubs that I want anymore. My phone is full of women I will never call again.

My condo houses porn full of pictures that all dissolve into one girl.

One girl was all I thought I would ever need. Long ago, before I became… this. Before my reflection started showing me just how much I've fucked myself.

Just how right Alice is.

Somewhere along the line, I changed.

I just need to get through this day. And then tomorrow. And this week. It's all baby steps moving me through the time it takes to get past this. To get beyond Bella Swan and this stupid fucking hole I dug for myself.

I rub pomade in my hair and quickly knot my tie, folding down the collar of my shirt. This suit is a different kind of armor, an armor about as impervious to bullets as any Marine issue variety.

This coat and tie, because of their price or their quality, separates me from others, makes them hesitant to touch me, makes them understand their place without my having to tell them. Their place apart from me.

It occurs to me that Emmett's suit doesn't have that same power. His fits him like comfortable pajamas, making him easy to trust, reliable. His enhances the dependable nature of his smile and his can-do attitude.

These clothes only have the power I give to them.

And the power I give to anything is the power of discontented destruction.

...

(((HiFi)))

...

***BPOV***

When I push in the door to my office and flip on the light, my immediate thought is that the incredible arrangement of tropical flowers on my desk is from Edward. But it's not. My heart falls as I open the card and see a tidy little endearment, written by the florist on Alec's behalf.

I don't know how I feel about this.

I spend the morning thinking about Edward and this other man who I don't know. I don't know him, but he seemed really nice. I can't help but contrast this huge bouquet with the single blue rose that Edward gifted me. His sly way of slipping it into my lunch bag, not caring if the flower was damaged or crushed, so different from this careful ornamentation now decorating my office.

Maybe I should cut my losses and start afresh. Maybe the purpose of all of this, in the long run, was to lead me to that Christmas party and this kind Scot who kisses hands and…

And maybe… maybe a few months ago I would take the chance.

And maybe now, today, I SHOULD take the chance. But that 'maybe', if I am being honest, feels like I won't.

I feel tainted, but not by Alec. Not in the way that can be wiped off on a lapel by a seemingly jealous paramour. I feel tainted inside, like my insides match my outsides. I am not suitable for eating. Not right now.

I have too much anger, too much confusion… and I have too much self-pity. I wish I didn't. I hate how I feel right now and I wish I could channel everything I have into directing that hate at Edward Cullen.

But I can't.

I don't know how I can feel heartache this bad if there wasn't something real between us. I shake my head at myself again. Again and again. There is nothing real with that man. It's all just games.

But, I don't know how to box up this disappointment and walk away from it.

So I'm not going to.

I have to finish this before I can start something else. I have to purge it from my system. I think of Hobbes telling Calvin, "Until you stalk and overrun, you can't devour anyone."

And that is me right now.

I take my cell outside to the parking lot and dial the phone number in the card. I don't really want to have this conversation. Let's add it to the list of things I don't really want to do, but have to anyway. It rings on the other end several times before Alec's kind voice fills my ear.

"Alec, hey. It's Bella. Swan. From um…"

"Yes, Bella. I very distinctly rrremember you. From Edward Cullen's party."

"Yes. I got your flowers. They were such a surprise."

"Oh? Good. I'm so glad to hear it. I hope you will agree to have dinner with me?"

I am gnawing a hole in my lip. I feel like I should say yes to this person. I feel like a fool, saying no to someone who might not be a complete fuck-face. But I can't say yes. Not right now. I look up at Edward's window, the black window pane dark and disallowing in the weak winter sunlight.

"I can't. I'm sorry." I am rushing on before he can interrupt me or I can change my mind. "I want to, I'm just... I'm not in a good head-space right now to start a new relationship. Or, I'm sorry maybe that is presumptuous of me. I mean. I need… some time."

"How much time?"

"I don't really know. I'm sorry."

"Is it Edward Cullen? Because you shouldn't waste your energy on that lot, love."

This irks me. I'm not a child, and while he may be right, he has no fucking idea what my energy is best served doing.

"I'd rather not… discuss it. If you don't mind."

"I'm sorry Bella. That was out of line. Your business is yours. How about this. Why don't you hang on to my number, and call me, when you're ready. But, if I don't hear from you by say… Valentine's Day… I will be checking in. I really would like to get to know you. Is that fair?"

"Fair. Yes. Thank you, Alec. I appreciate your understanding. And thank you again, for the flowers, they're beautiful."

"You're very welcome, Bella."

I end the call and let out my breath. Glad that's over.

Alec's words stick with me, though, about wasting my energy. But it's not about that. It's not about spending energy on Edward Cullen. It's about spending the energy on myself, and not starting something with someone while I am still… recovering… for lack of a better word. I'm still figuring out how I move forward.

Edward unlocked something in me. I don't know if it is just a mirror of his rage, a well of my own tamped anger being tapped, or just some psychosis in me born of his betrayal. I am on a road that doesn't make sense. I may be driving through fog directly into a wall, but I don't care. This self-destruct sequence has already been initiated.

And I am counting down.

...

(((HiFi)))

...

I'm at Northgate mall, at a loss for what to buy anybody this year. I pick up items, turn them over, find the price and put them back. My Christmas gift buying has been negligent so far. Usually I get it all done before December starts. This year, not so much.

Leah and Sam are taken care of. I got them dragon pendants that fit together into a yin-yang, or 69, depending on how you look at it. Leah will see the yin-yang. Sam will see two dragons getting kinky.

The symbolism of it is perfect. They complement each other so well.

Jasper is getting an original Chewbacca action figure that I found in a thrift store months ago. Still in the box, it's collecting dust in my closet. I don't know if he has one already, and if he does, another one can't hurt, considering how expensive it was.

My dad… and Sue… and Seth… I just can't think of anything.

And my boss. And Jane.

I've bought several things for Jake. New leash and collar, big cedar bed which he will never lay on, gourmet organic dog-chews.

And then there is Alice, who probably just goes out and buys herself whatever she needs.

I pick up a spa-bath kit with rock salts and scrub brushes and check the price. I set it back down. Nothing says I have no idea what to get you like bubble-fucking-bath.

I feel worn down and uncreative. I hate the thought of getting trite little gifts for the people I love, just because I have to. I want a gift that says I put thought and effort into it, and I have very little thought and effort right now.

And also Edward. Money can't buy what he needs for Christmas. He needs his heart to grow three sizes in one day, but I don't think that actually happens. I need my tit to grow back. That isn't happening either.

I need my eyes to stop welling up in the middle of fucking Macy's.

I need Elvis's Blue Christmas to stop following me around, every-fucking-where I go.

I pass a bin of mark-down menswear and think that maybe I will get him socks. Maybe I will get him a swift kick in the nuts. Maybe I will just get him nothing and let this all go. He obviously wants nothing to do with me. He is obviously sending me a very clear message to fuck off.

And I should…

And I will.

I'm going to test him first though.

My phone buzzes and I pull it out of my pocket. It's Jane. She asks me if I've decided about New Years Eve. She tells me Carlisle is doing a Monte Carlo thing. Gambling and Bond. She tells me that he requested me, if I was available. And am I?

I tell her to let me call her back this weekend with my answer.

I think about it while I look at ties and tie clips. While I torture myself with the idea of having a husband to shop for every year. Someone sharing my small space, my bed, my life. Someone I could put my energy into, my love. Someone to wake up with on Christmas morning and say "Merry Christmas" to… someone to nudge gently, waking him softly with a mug of coffee and his first gift of the day.

The someone in these fantasies looks suspiciously like Edward Cullen. Still. Despite everything.

Stupid girl, I tell myself. For the millionth time. Today.

A New Year's Eve party… gambling and Bond. Do these people just party all the time? I guess I could work it. I guess I could spend New Years Eve making money instead of whatever non-plans I have at this point. But I don't really want to work this event. I want to go to this event.

I stare at my phone. It feels heavy in my hand. It feels like I should put it back in my pocket. But that is not what I do. I call Alice.

I ask for an invite.

She grills me. "Why are you asking me? Why not Edward?" I sigh. I am about to answer when she says, "Oh fuck, Bella. What did he do?"

"Nothing Alice. Nothing. Okay? I just… don't think he is going to invite me… and I'd like to come." I run my free hand over the lapel of a crisp charcoal suit while we talk.

The other end of the line is silent. I can almost hear the wheels in Alice's head spinning. My mouth is opening to tell her to forget the whole thing when she speaks again, in a quiet voice this time.

"If Edward isn't going to invite you, Bella, I'm sorry, but… I don't think that I should either. I'm sorry."

She really does sound sorry.

Fine.

Time for the big guns. I duck out of the shopping area into a quiet corner and speak earnestly into my phone. "Look, Alice. You fucked with my life. I know why you had Jasper give me those tags and it worked. You want me to care for your brother, regardless of whether or not he cares for me – guess what? Mission accomplished. You were right, he pushes people away. Hard. This is me pushing him back. You owe me. You owe me an invite if I ask you for it. I am asking you for it."

More silence.

I am going to cry… right here in this fucking store. In front of all these strangers who will look at me and my ridiculousness. I lock my jaw and think about Barry Bonds breaking the homerun record. How his son met him at the plate… this is not helping.

I think of how I almost caught one of Danny Carey's drumsticks when I was ten years old. I touched it, and it ricocheted off my hand. My mom squeezed my calf, reaching up to where I sat on Phil's shoulders, and told me she knew he was throwing it to me.

Still not working.

"How did you know about the party?" Alice asks.

"Jane asked me to work it."

"So… you can be there either way?"

"I can. But I would like to come as a guest and not a peon."

Another long pause stretches between us. Her voice is overly cordial when she finally speaks, "Okay Bella. Please come as my guest."

"Thank you, Alice."

"Can I tell him that you will be there, or does this favor extend to my silence?"

"It's up to you. I'm not going to ask for anything else."

"Good."

I hang up the phone and proceed to feel like a complete asshole.

...

(((HiFi)))

...

Every morning of this week starts with power music. The initial catalyst that Monday was, that intense explosion of self-righteous energy has faded, leaving me to seek artificial boosts from music. And not just to give me the nerve to face Edward Cullen, but to take the edge off my cynicism. To bring color back to my skies and my trees, to bring flavor back to my tongue. To bring authenticity to my smile, to take the weight from my face.

Pulling into my parking lot is such a simple act of my life, done daily. It used to just be the beginning of my work day. Then, it was my first opportunity to see Edward. Now, it's the beginning of my façade.

I slide out of the Rodeo and unhook my iPod, shoving it into my bag, slamming the heavy creaking door and hurrying across the lot. It's cold today, an arctic wind is nipping at all my exposed skin.

The hallway is enclosed and warm and it relaxes me a bit, soothing my jittery jaw and all the other muscles clenched against the cold.

And there is Edward, in burnt umber, walking towards me. This color makes his eyes and hair positively blaze, like a match has been set to him. But it's not just that… it's something pent up and vibrant, something he surges with in his every movement.

The look on his face tells me he wants to do an about-face and head the other way. I know that feeling. Well, actually.

He doesn't, though. We slowly close the distance between us, his gaze focused straight ahead of him like I don't exist. I wonder if he will even greet me this morning. I stay to my right, he stays to his, and I notice his left hand has tape across the knuckles, like a boxer. Like a prize fighter. As I pass him I reach my hand out and slide my fingers over it, seeking both the electricity his body conducts, and his reaction to my gesture. I am past him when I feel his motion stop. When I feel his eyes on my back.

I don't turn.

...

(((HiFi)))

...

***EPOV***

This week. Could be one of the worse weeks of my life.

Every day is a boot camp. Every day is an endurance run. Every day starts with self loathing and ends in a bottle. Every day I see Bella, either in the hallway, the break room, the parking lot... or in my office. Like now, when she sets a cup of coffee on my desk, flashing me her incredible smile. Like nothing's nothing.

Like nothing at all happened. Like she isn't the air that I refuse to breathe.

After she breezes out Alice is in my office, closing the door softly and shooting me a look that requires no words. How could you?

I just shake my head at her and go back to the paperwork spread across my desk. So she says it out loud. "What the fuck did you do?"

Come again?

I thought for sure Bella had told Jasper, given the look he unleashed at me in the break room yesterday, or even Alice directly, by this time; but Alice's face tells me that she has no idea how low I've descended.

"Guess what, Al?"

Her jaw skews to one side and she shakes her head. "You don't want to talk about it?"

"Bingo."

Then she gets down in my face, her body leaning forward, one hand pressed into the desk, as she tells me that she's had enough of my shit. That I need to get over myself, and my past, and stop fucking around. That I am going to end up dead, or worse. And how do I feel knowing that I am causing pain to others. How the Edward she loves would never have done whatever I did to Bella. Because she just knows me and while she doesn't know exactly what I did, she knows that it was fucked. Because everything I touch turns to shit.

I let her rail at me. I nod. I agree with her. Even when she tells me I need therapy - for the millionth time. Her mouth falls open when I say, "Yes."

And then she treats me with such care and gentility, as if her continued shrew-like behavior would cause the realization to dissolve. She asks me if I want the number for her therapist and I let her know that I already have someone. That I have my introductory appointment next week.

And then, she fucking cries.

She hugs me like she did when I got back from the Middle East. With all the emotion of my coming home a man and not a corpse.

"Alice, I love you. Now get out of my office."

And she does.

I am left alone with my work and this perfectly creamed coffee that Bella placed humbly on my desk.

Something is off here and I can't put my finger on it. When I passed her in the hall yesterday and she greeted me with a caress across my damaged hand, like she knew it was for her. When I brushed past her, her face was a world of secret understanding, like we share some kind of common intrigue.

She's playing some kind of game. This is not the Bella Swan that stood wilting in the wake of my performance last Saturday. This is not a Bella Swan I've seen.

Vengeful?

No... But... it's something like that. Damaged and trying to hide it.

I hate to see the sun slowly moving towards the horizon outside my window. I don't want to go home. Again. Always. Always the horrible emptiness of the evening to be filled, to be squandered between a pair of willing legs. I failed earlier and every day this week, but tonight I absolutely cannot go home. I absolutely cannot face myself, even if I'm facing shards.

I lock up the office. Olympian Real Estate is quiet, the halls are dark. The parking lot is empty, completely. Of course. It's Friday and most people are anxious to begin the weekend.

I roar out of the parking lot and let the Jag point itself towards my destination of choice. I end up at Virago, throwing the keys to a valet and letting the pulse of industrial remixed pop-rock pull me inside.

Virago always reminds me of Riley and his obsession with falconry. He would talk forever about birds of prey. He would fill our night watch with tales of kings and queens, raj's and empresses, and their birds.

Apparently, hawks return to the arm of the falconer because it's a successful perch. It is not personal, at all. There is no attachment between bird and man outside of the hunt. If a hawk has luck from a certain branch or post, they will always come back to it.

He told me once that some birds often mate for life. Storks... penguins... swans.

Virago is my successful perch. I have luck here. Except the other day, when everything around me looked like bleak nothing. Like cheap easy nothing. Like me. I saw myself everywhere.

Tonight I go in with a new awareness. Fuck all this. I don't care who she is or why she's here. Someone is here for me. Someone is a mark. In this club full of desperation and body odor, sticky floors and dark paneled walls you wouldn't want to see in the light of day, some girl is going to be my distraction.

It's dark inside with blue lights glowing, surging, skittering off every surface. Artificial fog clings to the ceilings, the walls, the cages and platforms where women gyrate in time with remixed Eminem, Marilyn Manson, The Prodigy and Lady Gaga. Confused energetic music, the soundtrack to an invitation for violent sexual activity. The dance floor is crowded with undulating bodies, people getting as close to each other as society allows, their clothing doing little to mask the tension and relief being sought with every pelvic thrust. Huge, low cut lounges curl into all the little nooks of the building and are running over with bachelor parties. Groups of guys with fat wallets trying to lure in the bachelorettes, all of whom get corralled the moment they enter. Drinks are free for any girl accompanying a bride-to-be, provided she likes to roll the dice.

The bouncers know me. They let me pass and don't bother checking my ID. I head to one of eight bartenders doing double time and order a drink, then find a seat.

I never have to put much effort into this. They come to me. They always come to me.

My eyes wander, my mind wanders. I wonder exactly when I crossed the line, when I became this man. This man who draws pussy to him without trying. It's not my looks, not them alone. It's my discontent. It's my dissatisfaction. It's my not giving a shit. They sense it. Women sense it... if I had known this when I was in high school, maybe I would have gotten laid. Or had a girlfriend.

When I was sweet and vestal I got nothing.

I was still lost then… so it can't be that.

It must, absolutely, be my anger.

Why do women want this? What part of my torment appeals to them? What part of my fucked off outlook gives them satisfaction? There is no satisfaction in this. There is only a downward spiral into the grave.

It's overdue. It's long overdue. My number came up ages ago. It's all borrowed time now. It's all an extension of this afterlife that doesn't mean shit.

Bella would consider it a gift.

I'm not going to think about Bella.

And I am not going to think about the war.

I'm not going to think about Carlisle or Liz, or my ex-step-mother Fiona, or Rosalie, or Emmett...

Fucking golden child, Emmett. Fucking prodigal son. So perfect it's a bad cliché. Football scholarship all the way. All the way to a broken vertebrae in his neck. All the way to being an insurance broker and not giving a fuck because he is just that way. Because he doesn't look back... because he has the self assurance granted him by knowing his place in the world. By being naturally stronger and bigger than the other guy. By being undefeatable physically and indefatigable in spirit. He smiles all the time. Even in the hospital when they told him he would never play professional ball. He said good, he didn't want to anyway.

People are always drawn to Emmett and his good nature. His charisma. His talent. His ease of manner.

Emmett would never get yanked from his bunk in the silent night, wrapped in a blanket, and shoved in a supply closet while three other recruits beat the shit out of him. Or five, depending on the day, depending on the shit that came out of my mouth. Emmett would never get a face full of mud or spit. I don't think anyone would dare call Emmett a faggot.

Is it too fucking Freudian to say that I spend my life proving that I'm not gay? That I'm not the meek sissy I used to be?

Proving it to Fiona and Emmett's jock friends and my father. Always proving something to my fucking father. But he never sees. He saw Emmett, he saw Alice, he saw me when I stood next to them.

Alice would argue that I've never been a sissy. That having a tender heart doesn't make you any less a man.

We had a bird fly into our window once. Thunk. I will never forget that sound. Alice always reminds me that it was me who dragged her outside to see if it needed help. Me who cried at the sight of its broken, little body in the gravel. She throws this day in my face all the time. This day and so many others.

I tell myself I am done rehashing my childhood... full of disdainful looks and recriminating hands. Hands that take your things from you... hands that give your secret toys to Alice, mouths that tell you to go play outside with the other boys.

People who don't understand you at all.

People who laugh at you when you ask for stupid shit for Christmas. Since I was eight I just open what they give me and say thank you. Then Alice and I would escape to our clubhouse and play, free of scrutiny. Games where we could be anything we wanted to be. She was so little then.

People who start to tip-toe around you because you are becoming quietly volatile.

People who stop talking to you at the dinner table because they don't like listening to you challenge every fucking thing anybody says.

I feel like I've been conditioned to this life.

By my family and church, school, the military, the delusion of heroism. My absolute misunderstanding of war, of culture, of terrorism and casualties, fighting for a cause, dying for something you've come to realize is evil. Killing. Looking at yourself in the mirror and knowing that yes, you can kill a person. You can kill a human being. Realizing that you know what it costs to be able to do that. It costs everything you are.

Fuck it all. Fuck my family and trying. I just don't care.

Bella thinks she is the bottom rung. Wrong.

The thrum of the music has become steady white noise, bubbling with this intoxication in my blood, and I realize that I've been watching one girl in particular.

An incredible vixen dancing in a cage across the room. Her hair is so fine and blonde it could be white. Hair like moonshine cut in a Cleopatra bob...hair like all the stars in the sky. It contrasts against the deep color of her tattoos, vague at this dark distance - indistinct - but distinctly reminiscent of another girl I know. Long legs, too. Shapely legs in tall go-go boots. The gap between her boots and her short-ass black shorts is so much fucking flesh. Toned legs up to her fucking neck. And something that always gets me. Always. A white wife-beater over a black bra.

So... give... me... nothing... just... feel. And now a sheep will follow.

I watch her... she is in her own little world. A world of music and motion, sound and smoke. This is the girl I want. I want to violate her in a way I don't usually violate anyone. I want to take her home and pretend she is someone else. I wish she was a brunette, but that would be too perfect.

God told me... I've already got the life... oh, I say...

I find Sal lingering by the DJ and hand him a wad of cash. I tell him I want that girl, and I point, to find my table when she takes a break. He gives me a wary look, but he tells me he will pass along my request. He tells me that Vic will be watching. I tell him I just want to talk to her.

I get another drink and find my dark corner table again. I watch her. I let my eyes skim the crowd, but they always come back to her.

God, the girl can go. I'm returning to my table with my fourth drink when I notice there is a voluptuous brunette dancing in her cage now. But there is no appeal. I wanted a brunette, I thought... but what I really want... is all that colored skin. All that slender body and intrinsic rhythm.

And then I catch sight of her moving through the crowd on the dance floor below. Her hair stands out, her inked shoulders tucking this way and that as she navigates through the throng. She is headed towards where I sit, and my spine tightens a bit. I have never ever been attracted to a girl with so many tattoos. Before Bella - I would never even have considered it. I usually prefer creamy unblemished skin and I know it will never be that way again.

No… not never. I just have to exorcise some demons.

I watch her legs as she climbs a short flight of metal stairs and turns in my direction. I let my eyes drift up, lingering on the flare of her hips, how her waist nips in, and then up over her small breasts to her collarbone. And the words inked there, in familiar fluid script.

All I can hear in my head is Bella's voice. Schism, by Tool.

The next thing I know my hands are full of all that moonbeam hair and Bella Swan is pulling a cap off her head, letting her dark damp hair fall around her face.

She sits across from me, crossing one beautiful leg over the other as she gives me nothing but poker face. "Edward."

I swallow. "Bella."

"So, Sal says you gave him a shitload of money to talk to me. You could have talked to me for free you know. You have my number, even if you never CALL it." Her eyes are accusatory. I know what she means by CALL. She means why the fuck do I fuck other women when I could be fucking her.

It's just not that simple.

"What are you doing here?" I ask.

"Waiting for you."

I just stare at her.

"I followed you here the other day," she says, her tone matter-of-fact. "It's funny, because you frequent a very fortuitous club for me. Sal is Sam's uncle. I told him I wanted to dance in a cage and he told me I could. Pretty ironic, that. A swan dancing in a cage. Don't you think? It is so... apt." Her face has an edge to it. Like her voice.

"Do you do this often?"

"Have you ever seen me here before?"

"Never."

She leans in and I can smell her. Her heated skin, not determination this time, it's pure exertion that pinks her cheeks and neck. It's hours in motion that brings her blood right to the surface. Makes her hair steam and her eyes conspire against me.

"That's right. Never. Have you EVER paid Sal to bring you a dancer before?"

Never. Not once.

"I knew it was you."

"Liar."

"Bella, your body identifies itself. You can't hide under a wig."

"I can hide behind the blur of distance."

"Apparently not."

"Cut the bullshit, Edward. We both know the truth."

"Fine. I wanted the blonde dancer whose body looks like yours."

"So, you can use that cock indiscriminately on everyone except me, is that it?"

"I was trying to respect your space Bella. I thought... after last weekend... you might want it."

She rises easily to her feet and winds around the small table to straddle me. My hands can't help themselves. They reach for her to guide her into me as I feel all her heat come flush to my body. "Do I look like I want it?"

I don't want to acknowledge what she looks like she wants. She goes on. "It used to be your honesty and, yes, your looks, and your laugh… I don't know... now... I just want to ride the ride. Where do I insert my quarter?"

If I feel demeaned it's my own fault. "Coin-op-cock?"

She laughs. It's the same laugh, beautiful and genuine, but there is a bitterness about it now.

I know what pain looks like. It looks like Bella Swan and her pretending face.

She studies me. I'm pretty sure I still look fairly bewildered. Clutching at the small of her back doesn't anchor me any more to this spot. Any more to the reality of Bella telling me she wants a quick easy fuck.

There is no way I can fuck Bella Swan. There is no way I can hold her lithe decorated body against mine. There is no way I can touch her without intimacy. In every cell of this fucked up body is the urge to show her, not tell her. SHOW her how she makes me feel. My body would speak against my will.

"What, Edward? That little show with Irina wasn't just a preview? A quick little hors d'oeurve for me to savor?"

I cannot stand hearing that name on those lips. "Enough."

"No. Not enough."

She leans forward and lets her expressive mouth skim my ear. "You know… there's a theory I read once about why women are so much more vocal than men during sex. Did you know?"

I shake my head and her cheek finds mine, stilling me with slight adamant pressure. Her touch is like a radiant balm, and I press into it.

"Yeah, they're calling other participants to the gang-bang." Bella's mouth saying the word 'gang-bang' right into my brain yanks me to full attentiveness. I twitch beneath her.

"Hmm, I can feel that your indiscriminate cock likes this conversation... "

I slide my hands to her hips and push myself into her. "Maybe a little."

"Oh good. 'Cause... you know how the sounds of you two fucking made me feel? Like rubbing one out in your bathroom… is that what you were trying to make me feel?"

I have no words. I have no air.

"Is that what you feel, right now?" She slides her delicate hand between us and covers the bulge in my pants with it, squeezing gently. "Is that a foil wrapped cucumber in your pants or are you just happy to see me?"

Her thumb drags down along the rigid shaft and I feel myself surge underneath her touch. She brushes her lips across mine, her eyes watching my face intently, just a flat black in this light. I churn inside and before I can stop myself I've engulfed her mouth with mine. My own ardor rises as I recall her writhing in my chair, moaning and whimpering. The feel of her is driving me crazy, how it feels to touch her, how she is pressing the heat of her sex firmly against me. Scorching hot, thinly clad sex, so accessible. So easy. Her mouth tastes like cinnamon and Bella.

Damn her.

The imagery in my mind is powerful, inescapable. A greater aphrodisiac than this creature does not exist in my world.

I could push her bodily against the wall and be inside of her in under ten seconds.

Like Irina.

No. This is the opposite of what I wanted. I grip her by her arms and push her back from me.

She smirks, her mouth cynical and glistening. "No?"

I feel my breath coming, desperate and heavy. "No."

"You don't want to get high and fuck me in the parking lot?"

No.

It would never be fucking.

It would never be the cheap disposable exchange of basic animal need, like eating, like shitting. It could never be that, not with her.

And not in the parking lot.

I close my eyes. I breathe. I can feel her intense stare all over the sensitive skin of my face. I can hear her voice, persuasive, delicate despite the music thumping all around us.

"There are hundreds of women in this club Edward and you chose me. You want me," she says, her tone turning to mimicry, "Don't overcomplicate something simple." Again she uses my words against me.

But this isn't simple. Not for me.

Her eyes burn into me. "I've slept with two men in my life. You are number three. You can close your eyes and think of whomever you choose, but you said you would climb this ladder to the top and I'm holding you to it."

We stare at each other and she nods slowly. "Get used to the idea." And she climbs off my lap and disappears into the throng on the dance floor.

She doesn't return to the cage.

I stare at the wig on the table. I should've known. I should've known.

I did know... part of me knew. The part that was aroused. Like a fucking divining rod. And now it only points at that woman.

I am so fucked.

High Fidelity

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A/N:

Okay. So. Short and sweet. THANK YOU to Dragonfly336 and BelieveItOrnot - you both make this story way better. Like, tons better.

And thank YOU!

Yes... YOU! :D I wish I could respond to all my reviews. You guys blow my mind. Thank you. I hope you know how much I appreciate you. It's a lot. A big lot.

And... as usual, music is on my blog: ireenh. blogspot. com

Come play in our FB group: facebook. com/groups/ 357616267625752/

And finally - DH78 interviewed me. If you are interested, it will be posted tonight over at: Diamondheart78. blogspot. com

(all these links will only work if you remove the spaces I've stuck in there so FFn will let me post - PM me if you have difficulty)

Oh! P.S. - The theory about why women are more vocal than men during sex is one I read in Sex At Dawn, The prehistoric origins of modern sexuality. Just in case you wondered if I was totally Bee-Essing that. I'm not. ;)