Sorry this was so late. I meant to get more accomplished with this chapter but got carried away with Bella's birthday. We'll get back to the Charlie dilemma next chapter.
It's My Party and I'll Be a Snarky Bitch If I Want To
"She's doing what?"
"Planning yer birthday party," Peter replies sheepishly. I swear, I think it's the only time 'sheepish' can describe Peter.
"And you didn't think to say, 'thanks, but no fucking way'?"
"Er … no?"
I'm pacing the floor at this point. I mean, what in the hell is he thinking letting some crazy vampire who thinks she's my best friend plan my very human, very important birthday party? My twenty-first birthday. My last birthday.
"It didn't sound half bad. A club in Port Angeles for drinks and back to the Cullen's for gifts afterward. Nothin' too crazy."
"Gifts? They got me gifts?" Okay, now I feel a little bad. "But they barely even know me. Carlisle, maybe, but he was kinda like my boss. What's he going to get me, an expensive fountain pen? Isn't that what rich people who don't know you give as gifts?"
"I have no idea what they got ya, and please don't make me ask Edward. I try to avoid conversations with that one as much as I can."
I sit down with a huff on my bed and Peter sits next to me, the bed groaning with his extra weight. He pushes back a piece of hair that's made it loose from my ponytail—which, I'm happy to say, I did myself.
"What do you want to do fer yer birthday?"
I turn toward him, lifting my hands to fiddle with the top button if his shirt as I try my best pout. Looking up at him from under my eyelashes, with what I hope is a sexy look, I reply. "You."
He chuckles, the side of his mouth going up in a crooked smile. "You have me."
"You know what I mean, Peter. It's been forever. First Maria, and then my stupid shoulders getting nearly ripped from their sockets. You haven't touched me in like … a month."
He grips my face in his cold hands, brushing his thumb across my cheek and over my bottom lip. My hands grip his, not wanting to give him a chance to pull away from me, even though I know I couldn't put up much of a fight if he does. Still, it's the closest we've been since the fuck-storm happened, and a girl's got to take what she can get.
I lean in, my eyes pleading with him, and he gives in. Thank you God, he gives in. His mouth is cool but firm on my skin, parting my lips and exploring. His hands hold me carefully, one behind my neck and the other on the small of my back, as if I'm breakable. But I have to remember, to him I am.
The bed groans again, and he's on top of me, one of his legs between my own as his hand deftly unsnaps my bra all while his lips never leave mine. He seems calm and cool, while I'm the rabid animal, mauling him with mouth, teeth, and tongue as I rip at his clothes. Patience is not a virtue I'm capable of right now.
His shirt is now on the floor and I'm trying and failing miserably to get his pants off. My fingers are suddenly uncoordinated sausages. I curse and he chuckles.
"It's not a race, Bella."
If it is, I'm getting to the finish line first, hell I might even make it around for a second lap. Peter pulls my hand away from his crotch and I grumble in protest. But all is soon forgotten, my mind blissfully blank, when his knee rubs against the part of me that's begging the most for attention. I'm like a teenage boy on his maiden voyage, afraid of making a very wet spot from just a little dry humping.
With my head thrown back, hips arched forward, and moaning loudly, I've almost made it to the finish line. My hands blindly grope Peter's torso, and I finally find a body part I can grip and cling tightly to a bicep and a forearm as I ride out the home stretch.
When the last muscle in my body uncurls, I dare to open my eyes. Peter is staring down at me, his eyes still nearly black with hunger, and a smile that is on of verge of breaking into a laugh.
"Shut up. It's been a while."
"Really? 'Cause I don't recall you ever humpin' my leg before."
I blush despite myself, part from anger and part from embarrassment. "Will you just fuck me properly so we can forget this ever happened?"
"I would, but your Dad might not appreciate that, and I am tryin' to make a good impression."
"He's almost here, isn't he?" Peter purses his lips and nods. Cue major hissy fit. "Fuckity, fuck, fuck," I yell as I throw my pillows off the bed, stomping and cursing like a mad woman.
"Are ya done?"
I blow my hair out of my eyes with a huff. "Yes. I need to go to the bathroom." And clean up the mess I've made.
"See ya tomorrow, Belle." He walks to my window, his boots making not even a whisper of noise on the hardwood floors. Without protest, my window opens—thank you WD-40—and he disappears just as I hear the front door open.
…
Tomorrow evening finds me sat at the bar of Catch 21, staring down at my ID which declares me officially of age. The bartender grabs my ID, checking the date as a smile spreads across his face.
"Oooohhh! Looks like we have a very special birthday girl! You kn …" My murderous glare cuts him off mid-sentence.
"If there's confetti or singing involved, I will cut you," I say half to the bartender and half to Peter, though it's really the spiky haired demon I should be focusing my wrath on. "Oh, and I'll have something fruity with one of those umbrellas in it."
The bartender just nods and goes to work.
I feel arms wrap around my waist and I sigh and close my eyes, until a scent washes over me that is not Peter's. I stiffen instantly, turning around to see who's holding me.
"Little, feisty Bella. You'll make a fantastic vampire," Emmett beams. "So when's the big day?"
"Um, soon I think." As soon as I win Charlie over. "Where's your wife?"
"Birthdays aren't really her thing." He shrugs and lets his arms fall to his sides before sitting himself between a bored Carlisle and a zoned-out Alice.
"I understand." And I do. Out of all the Cullens, Rosalie is the most straightforward with her feelings about me. I appreciate that, even if she is a bitch. Honest bitch is a giant leap above just bitch bitch. And speaking of bitch, crazy bitch has gone out of her way to make this birthday incredibly uncomfortable. From the inch-thick layer of makeup that covers my face, to the too-tight black dress that I can barely breathe in, to the group of very-uptight vampires sitting at a bar that doesn't serve them—this whole thing screams uncomfortable.
Everything is momentarily forgotten, though, when my drink arrives. I knock it back in three, very unladylike gulps as I twirl my umbrella between my index finger and thumb.
"Keep 'em coming." The bartender just nods and shuffles away.
"If yer gonna slam 'em back like that, ya might as well be doin' shots," Peter purrs in my ear.
I suppress a shiver, the alcohol already spreading warmth through my veins, melting my tension away. "Nah, they burn on the way down. Vodka doesn't." I turn to face him, my nose brushing his cheek. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were trying to get me drunk, offering me shots like that."
Peter smiles. I feel it against my skin rather than see it. "I don't need to get ya drunk to have my way with you."
I shrug. "True, but I do need some liquid courage if I'm going to dance." He pulls away from me and his eyebrows shoot up. "Oh, we're gonna dance. Birthday girl says so." I look toward the dance floor where Edward is dancing to Lady Gaga's "Poker Face." I have to admit, the boy's got some moves. Disturbingly sexual moves, but moves none the less.
In a way, I envy him. It's obvious he cares little about what anyone else thinks. The silver hot pants kind of scream that point. Still, he lives his life without worrying about everyone's' opinions even though he, more than anyone else, knows exactly what they think of him. His dark eyes turn my direction as proof, and the strangest vampire I know gives me a dazzling smile. In a strange turn of events, I realize Edward probably knows us better than anyone else, given his gift. And that fact is more than unsettling.
Thankfully, my next drink has arrived, but it's sorely underdressed. I look pointedly at the bartender, gesturing at the empty spot on the rim of my glass where a cute little umbrella should sit. Without a word, he retrieves another umbrella and plunks it in my glass. I'm sure he'll be spitting in my next drink if he hasn't already.
After drink number four, things get dicey. Vague flashes of the pulsating lights of the dance floor, Peter's arms around me as I rest my head on his silent chest, the aroma of urine and the cool press of porcelain beneath my cheek, and a row of ten or so mini umbrellas are all I remember before I'm watching the scenery blur by my open window. The wind on my face is the only thing that's keeping the contents of my stomach from making a reappearance.
"I am never doing that again," I mumble to myself. We slow down and pull into a McDonalds drive through. Peter orders me coffee, black, with a six-piece mystery meat mcnuggets.
"Unlike the alcohol, you should drink this slowly. It'll help sober you up. I used to drink chicory after a heavy night of drinkin'. They say it helps cleanse the blood."
I sip it slowly and my head spins, throbbing like a mother fucker. I want to ask him about the chicory, about his human life, because I know his memories are few and far between, but I doubt I'll be able to remember anything after I sleep tonight. Sleep. Yes, that's all I want right now. Sleep, then sex. Well, sleep, then a shower, and then sex. "Do I really have to go open presents now? I just wanna go to bed."
"The chief'll have my head if I bring ya home piss drunk. Either way, we need to sober ya up."
"Fine. I hope there's cake," I mutter into my cup of coffee.
And there is cake. Three tiers of spongy white cake with purple and white frosting. Three tiers and I'm the only one here who will eat it. Everywhere I look, the purple and white is repeated in streamers and table clothes. I mean, the Cullen's living room is normally white—a startling, colorless white without a speck of dirt in sight. Then again, they don't eat in here. That would be disgusting. White stained with red fills my vision and my hand flies to my mouth as a wave of nausea turns my stomach.
"Maybe you should sit." Edward's voice tinkles over my shoulder, and ice-cold, jewel-fingered hands force me down to the couch. Thanks, I think, knowing he'll get the message.
Two Alices skips into my vision and squeal, "present time!"
After really focusing, I get the two Alices to merge back into one. The world should thank me for that. Now, I'm just ready to get this over with. I plaster what I hope doesn't look like a fake smile on my face.
"Carlisle and Esme first," the single Alice dictates.
Carlisle takes a seat across from me, smiling gently as Esme sits beside him. He leans toward me and hands me an envelope with a tiny purple bow on top.
"You guys really didn't have to do this." Really, I feel weird accepting gifts from them.
"Nonsense. You'll be family soon," Mother Dearest pipes up cheerily but her voice is like ice.
I flash a tight smile as I pull at the bow and tear open the envelope. Inside are two tickets … to Rio de Janeiro. My eyes bulge out of my head.
"We own an island fifty miles off the coast," Carlisle explains. "It's small, but secluded. There are no people inhabiting the island. We thought it would be easier for your transition. Edward informed us you wish to adhere to our diet." What! They own an island? Who owns an island besides maybe The Trump?
"I … yes, I do want to go veg, but I can't accept this. It's too much." Plane tickets, private islands—my head is spinning. I place the tickets on the glass table in front of me and slide it back. Before I take my hand from the envelope, a perfectly manicured hand with short, neatly polished mauve fingernails stops me. I look up into Mrs. Cullen's honey colored eyes. Out of all the Cullens, she might scare me the most.
"We insist," she purrs. Clearly, she won't take no for an answer.
"Erm. Thank you."
"You're quite welcome." Dr. Cullen wraps an arm around his wife's shoulders, pulling her back against the couch with him as he sits back.
"My turn," Emmett bellows, making me jump an inch from the white, leather seat. He hands me a small white box, also wrapped with a small purple bow. Before I can undo the bow, he blurts, "It's an X-box controller. I used the label maker to put your name on it. Welcome to the family, Bells. Halo nights are on Thursdays."
This time my smile is genuine as I hold said X-box controller in my hand, looking at the label that reads "BELLS." It's so simple and thoughtful, that I really want to give Emmett a hug but remember that I like breathing more. He tends to get a little overzealous.
"Thanks, Emmett. As soon as I'm out of my murdering-the-townsfolk-phase of vampire-hood, I'll have to join you for game night."
"Yes!" He does a fist pump in the air and flashes a dimpled smile.
"Our turn," Alice sing-songs and prances toward me.
"Oh no. I'd like the record to state that I had nothin' to do with this." Jasper has me worried now. What the hell did that psycho faerie get me?
"Fine," she huffs, "this is from Edward and I. It's a collaborative effort. He pulled it from your brain and I made it come to life."
"It's not Chucky, is it, 'cause I've had nightmares about that doll since I was five." I eye the box skeptically. It looks about the right length.
"No, honey. Nothing scary, but it is something I plucked from one of your dreams." Edward's words send me scrambling in my mind, trying to figure out what it could be as Alice elbows him in the side. The resulting sound is like two stones scraping past each other.
I got nothing, my brain going absolutely blank. Carefully, I pull away—you guessed it—another purple bow from the white box. This bow, however, I decide to place right on top of Peter's head. Grimacing, he pulls off the offending bow a split second later.
"You're no fun." I pout. He lifts an eyebrow in challenge and I get the unspoken meaning behind the look. Yes, I'd rather be unwrapping him for my birthday. And as soon as we're done here, I hope to be doing just that.
Focus, Bella. Focus. The sooner I'm out of here, the sooner I can be doing what I really want for my birthday. I return my gaze to the white box in front of me, carefully lifting the corners. Whatever's inside is still concealed in heavy, white tissue paper. Oh, God. Please don't be lingerie.
"Nope. It's something better than that," Edward answers my unspoken question. Somehow, I'm still not comforted by his words.
Warily, I slide the folded tissue away to reveal something white and shiny. My brows pinch together in confusion. I grasp the material and it's rubbery in my hands. Picking it up from the box, I catch the glint off a silver zipper and a flash of red and white stripes. My eyes bug out of my head as the box and the material slips from my hands to the floor. A pleather red and white candy striper costume—an exact replica from my dream—falls out of the box and to the floor for all the world to see.
"Oh my God." I throw myself back against the couch and cover my already reddening face with my hands.
"Oh, honey, there's nothing to be embarrassed about. We have no secrets in this house, and you're hardly the exhibitionist." I distantly register Edward's words, getting stuck on 'in this house,' which is suddenly the last place I want to be. I stand up, keeping my eyes trained on the floor.
"We just wanted to give you a chance to live out your dreams," Alice's voice is strained, like she's the one who's upset. "Should we have gotten Charlotte down here for the renaissance dungeon fantasy instead?"
I literally choke on my own saliva. Not able to take the weight of their expectant gazes on me anymore. I bolt. Once I'm out of the house, I shut the door behind me and lean against it, taking as much fresh air into my lungs as possible.
There's the distinct sound of the crunch of gravel and I look up to see Peter standing from a crouch a few yards away.
"Please, just take me home," I plead.
He walks toward me, the silver of his belt buckle glinting in the moonlight. "But you forgot your presents."
I roll my eyes wanting desperately to change the subject before he asks me for details. I remember the dream clearly enough. Remember thinking that dream-Bella was all confidence and sex appeal. She could wear heals without teetering. Could take her hair down from a bun and shake it out without getting whiplash. I wish I could be dream Bella, and maybe someday I could, but that's definitely not today. Especially not after having my dirty laundry put on display in front of my would-be family.
Peter is in front of me now, just inches away. I finally lift my eyes to meet his face. He's smiling lightly, but it doesn't look mocking. His red eyes look almost black in the dim light, either that or he's hungry … or hungry.
From behind his back he produces my presents—all of them. I now realize there are matching thigh highs with the costume as they are currently draped over Peter's forearm. I raise an eyebrow at him and cross my arms over my chest.
"You don't have to wear it, but at least take it. If ya don't, Edward'll probably prance around the house in it, and then I'll have to gouge my eyes out."
I try not to laugh, but a snort escapes me. So, I grab the pile of presents and march to the passenger side of my truck. The driver's side door closes with the loud crunch of metal and we're alone in the cab.
Peter turns the key in the ignition and backs down the Cullen's long, winding driveway. The first few minutes of the drive pass in silence.
"I still haven't given ya my gift."
I turn toward him with surprise.
"Well, ya didn't think I'd let yer birthday pass without givin' ya anythin', did ya?"
I swallow. "Um, no." A chuckle. "It isn't a Magneto helmet is it? 'Cause I could have used one of those back at the Cullens."
"Should I know what yer talkin' about?" His brow furrows as he spares me a glance.
"The X-Men movies? You know, Patrick Stewart, the mind reader in a wheelchair, and Hugh Jackman looking all sexy as Wolverine?"
Peter continues to look straight ahead, shaking his head. "I prefer books over movies."
"Well, there's some you are definitely going to have to see … but X-Men isn't necessarily one of them." In my head, I start making on list of must-see movies, but my train of thought stops abruptly. How long will it be after my change before I can sit with him on a couch and have a movie marathon without thinking solely about … blood. I'm trying to imagine life as a newborn vampire and suddenly realize I know very little about what to expect. "What's it like, being a newborn? And I mean really like, no sugar-coating anything for me."
Peter's hands tighten on the steering wheel, and I'm wondering if my vehicle can handle this conversation right now.
"Ask me that again tomorrow. Tonight's yer birthday, and it hasn't been a great one so far. I'd like fer you to give me the opportunity to make it up to ya." He pauses, his lips flattening out into a thin line as my hormones and blood flow surges just thinking about all the ways that Peter can 'make it up to me.'
My truck lurches to the right, off the road, groaning and jumping over the now-uneven ground before coming to a grinding stop.
I reach out to brace myself against the dash and look to Peter wide-eyed.
"Sorry. That didn't go as smoothly as I wanted." He runs a hand through his closely shorn hair, and I wonder if it's a habit from when he had longer hair. I'm about to ask him when he goes completely still—and I mean as still as a statue still.
It feels as though minutes have ticked by when the silence in the cab becomes too stifling for me to take.
"Peter?"
His head snaps in my direction, faster than my eyes can register the movement, and I jump in response.
"Sorry, I—" His voice fades and he has this bewildered expression on his face.
I feel like I need a Vampire Operations Manual, because mine seems to be malfunctioning.
"Everything okay?" I quirk an eyebrow at him.
"Yeah, I just—I feel like I should say somethin' before I give this to you. It means a lot to me, has a history longer than mine, and I wanted you to have somethin' with meaning. Somethin' money can't buy." He looks up at me and a smile stretches across my face.
"You just did, Peter."
He lets out a chuckle, and then ducks his head. Oh my God, is he … nervous? He shifts his legs in the driver's seat, angling his left hip so he can reach into his pocket. When his hand returns, he's holding something—something small.
I squint my eyes, not that it helps in the dark. The only light illuminating the cab is the moon and the occasional car lights that speed by on the road. All I know is that whatever it is, it fits in his hand, and he's expecting me to take it.
Hesitantly, I reach for the object. My fingers graze soft velvet that gives with the slightest pressure—a bag. I lift it and feel the weight in my hand. It's heavier than I thought it would be. Not a ring, my mind tells me, relieved. The top of the bag is cinched by drawstrings and I slide it open and reach inside. What I feel is cold, hard, and oval shaped with little points that surround the outside. I can feel this rather than see it.
I grope the headliner for the cab light and flick the switch. What I find, nestled in my hand, is a cameo. A profile of a woman rose against a soft pink background. The whole thing is surrounded by gold filigrees. Carefully, I run my finger along the dips and curves of the carving of the woman, knowing that no machine did this. "It's beautiful," I whisper.
"It was my mother's. We weren't a wealthy family, but this cameo was passed down generation after generation from mother to daughter. My mother outlived my only sister, so she had no one else to give it to but me. I'm not sure how old it is, but the relief is carved from shell, not cast from resin. The chain in the only part that's new."
I hand it back to him and turn away to catch a moments confusion on his face before he understands. I sweep my hair to one side and he clasps the brooch around my neck. It feels heavy but right resting at the base of my throat.
I turn back around to face him. "This is definitely the best birthday gift yet."
"Yet? Do you expect more?"
I bite my lip and smile. "Of course. I expect you. All of you."