A/N- Thank you to everyone who's following these two! I love hearing your thoughts and feedback. I'm so glad everyone who reached out after the last chapter, had nothing but positive things to say ... hearing that you thought I did the struggle justice was a massive relief, so thank you!
My DTTF team, rock! And I couldn't do this without them. My pre-readers: LizziePaige, MarieSCullen and PearlyFox - I love you girls! And my Beta: SunflowerFran; you're a Saint! I can't thank you enough for continuing to put up with me!
Over to Edward ... Enjoy!
~oOo~
Chapter 8.
EPOV:
She's dumbfounded, confused. I don't know why, but she appears upset, contemplative as she walks by my side. For a moment, I feel bad and almost regret telling her what I did. I was venting and probably laid it on her a bit too thickly. It's not her fault she doesn't know the extent of the problems people like me face, but she was so open, so adamant to find out more. I can only hope I haven't scarred her, propelled her in the opposite direction.
But she doesn't seem like the type to feign denial and turn a blind eye. At least, I hope she isn't. I chance a quick glance in her direction; her head is bowed, watching her feet and her bottom lip is back between her teeth. I almost apologize, almost. But what exactly would I be apologizing for? It's not my fault the world is in a shit state. It's not my fault for answering her questions. She wanted to know, and I showed her. Maybe she wanted it sugar-coated? That's definitely not my style. But still, her worried, somber expression affects me way more than it should.
Across the street, a drunk calls to her, whistling and leering to get her attention. Instinctively, she closes the distance between us, securing herself closer to my side, and I place a hand protectively at the small of her back, throwing the rugged drunk a glare over the top of Bella's head. He backs off, closing his mouth and shrinks back into the shadowed doorway. Good. If he scares her again, I will kill that fucker.
The streets are dark, but a warm golden glow from the streetlights illuminates our path. She's cold, but there's nothing I can do about that for now. Scraps of paper and filth swirl around our footsteps, jostled by the cool breeze.
"This way," I tell her, breaking the silence between us. She looks up at me quickly and then silently follows as I lead her from the street into an alleyway. I smirk to myself in the darkness. She really shouldn't be following a relative stranger into dark corridors between eroding, dilapidated buildings. She's too trusting. Lucky for her, I have no inclination to harm her.
I stop at the dead end and pull my keys from my pocket. Bella's wary eyes follow my every move. She hasn't yet noticed the garage doors standing before us. Steadily, I unlock the wide door and push it upwards, so it sits open above our heads. The loud scream of rusting metal as the door raises reverberates through the alley and echoes sharply off the walls. I don't look back at Bella as I enter the dark space and remove the covering from my indulgence; the only one I may ever be able to grant myself.
"Wow," I hear her whisper as she takes a step forward. "What type of car is this?" She asks inquisitively, running her hand over the hood. I almost tell her to get her hands off it, but refrain, figuring I've spooked her enough tonight.
"It's a 1967 Mustang Eleanor," I tell her. "It was my uncle's." I don't know why I tell her the last part, as though I'm trying to justify myself.
She doesn't look up from the black hood, her eyes admiring, and I smile. The girl has taste.
"It's ... amazing." Her smile is wistful, appreciative, and I can't help but grin back at her.
"It gets me from A to B," I tease. "Or more appropriately, from this shit hole to..."
"West Roslyn Place, Lincoln Park," she answers my unasked question.
I purse my lips and nod, opening the passenger door for her. "Of course," I murmur sarcastically as she slides in, rolling her eyes playfully but staying silent at my quip.
I tap my knuckles on the roof briefly as I close her door and make my way around the front of the car to the driver's side. As soon as I'm seated, I turn the key in the ignition and chuckle as her eyes widen when the engine roars to life.
"Don't worry, Ladies Who Lunch; I'll get you home safely. Cross my heart."
"Enough with the nicknames or I'll be forced to retaliate." Her voice hides a laugh, her smile tight as she fights a grin, and for the first time in a long time, a short bark of laughter escapes my mouth.
"Give it your best shot, Lady Lincoln," I tease, easing the car forward from its parking spot. Once clear of the garage, and before she can retort, I'm back outside, closing the garage door behind us.
We're silent for a while, as I navigate the streets. A few times, I notice that her eyes flicker to my hand as I change gears. I decide to spare her the embarrassment of calling her out on it. I don't get it, but I remember Victoria's friend, Tanya, mentioning something about my nice hands, as I played with my lighter one day. Maybe it's a thing? Who knows what women like and who am I to judge? We all have our weaknesses.
"You don't talk much," I observe, glancing at her briefly.
"You've given me a lot to think about," she tells me, keeping her eyes straight ahead. All I can do is nod. "It's a lot to process, you know? And I feel so damn stupid. So damn sheltered." Her last words leave her mouth in a swooping breath, as though she's exasperated with herself.
"You're not stupid," I say, trying to comfort her as best I can. Though I'm out of practice and probably failing miserably. "Why would anyone want you to see that side of life?"
"Because I'm too precious, right?" She jeers, and I bristle a little under her scolding gaze, though I don't let her see.
"Now, who's defensive?" I ask, trying to backtrack and lighten the atmosphere as it rapidly begins to cloud over.
"You have no more right than me to get pissy."
I snigger, I can't help it, and she arches an eyebrow in question. "You shouldn't cuss, it doesn't suit you."
She's working her way through the emotions; I realize that, and I allow her the proverbial space and silence to do so. I'm sure she has a lot to work through after the taste of hardship I just doused upon her. She's gone from silent and contemplative to angry and snarky, in the blink of an eye. It's a skill I thought only I possessed. I've apparently met my match.
"Do you deal drugs?" She asks after a minute of silence, and my head snaps in her direction, shocked at her abrupt question.
"What do you think?" I ask, clenching my jaw. She shrugs, not looking at me.
"I don't know," she answers silently, her voice devoid of emotion. "I don't know you."
"You're right," I snap. "You don't." Her sudden blasé detachment ruffles my feathers. She sounds as though she couldn't care less whether I did or not. She clearly wouldn't be surprised if I did. I guess it's an appropriate conclusion to draw, regardless of the bitter taste it leaves on my tongue. She has no fucking idea.
"It's none of my business either way," she concludes, and her determination not to look at me makes my blood simmer in fury. She can't even meet my eye as she asks me such an intrusive question.
"Nope," I bite, popping the 'p.'
I'm no dealer. Not anymore. But the thought of her judging my past decisions based on my desperation to survive makes me irrationally defensive. I guess she did a good job of turning the tables. I should really applaud her.
I turn on to her street, and without speaking, she directs me to an empty spot I'm guessing is close to her home.
The street is so well manicured I almost throw up. A row of perfectly maintained brownstone homes lie on each side. It's quiet, charming ... obnoxious. Oh, how the other half lives. There are no piss stains on the trees, no uneven concrete on the paths, and not a single piece of discarded litter on the sidewalk. The cars are large, expensive, and pristine, mainly SUVs—family cars. It's ... safe. For the first time in a long time, I feel safe as I sit in my car, conspicuously looking around. Safe is a foreign concept to me, and because of that, I feel uneasy—what a contradiction.
"You not going to invite me in?" I tease as she gathers herself and opens the passenger door. She pauses, half in-half out of the car, and looks at me nervously, her eyes widening. "It was a fucking joke, relax." I know as well as she does I wouldn't fit in among her perfect, not-so-little house. She doesn't need to look so disgusted at the thought.
"I didn't ... I wasn't ..." she stutters, her cheeks reddening, even under the muted light of the street.
"Save it," I sigh. "I get it."
"I'm sorry," she whispers into the darkness of the car.
"Don't be."
"It's just ... my parents and-"
"It was a joke. Jesus," I grit, between clenched teeth. A joke I brought on myself. I pretty much asked for it, and now I'm being irrational. I really am a complicated fucker.
"Thanks for, eh ... everything." Her voice is low, weak, and I scoff, shaking my head as I chuckle disbelievingly.
"Oh, you're welcome." My voice is laced with sarcasm. She's so damn polite. Who thanks someone for emotionally scarring them? She mumbles a "good night" and closes the door before I can even reply.
I take a moment and rub my hand roughly over my face and through my hair. I should open my own charm school. That was a stellar fucking performance.
I don't wait to see which house she enters; I tell myself I don't care. Yet for the whole drive back towards my own turf, my mind is occupied with thoughts of a young, innocently naive girl with light brown hair and deep, soulful eyes. There's a blush I can't help but notice and a delicate, petite frame I feel the urge to protect; though I have a funny way of showing it. I don't even know how old she is, but despite her innocence, she can't be much younger than I am. Not that it matters. Our worlds are light years apart; she has aspirations and the means to a fulfilling life. I don't. I'm no good for her. I'm the worst decision she could make, even if I did make a move. I'm drawn to her; something about her intrigues me, but I can't be the guy who derails her life and her dreams. I refuse to be. She's a nice girl, and because of that, I'll appreciate her from afar. Because of that, I won't get closer than I already have.
She may think I opened her eyes tonight, but she opened mine, too. Maybe not all privileged brats are bad. Maybe I should give those born into a brighter life than my own, the benefit of the doubt. Possibly. Maybe I should state my cause through my artwork and treat people as individuals, regardless of their social and financial standings. Isn't that the same thing I ask of them? To treat the poor, the damaged, and the desperate as human beings, rather than vermin?
Shit, I'm such a fucking hypocrite.
I'm man enough to realize and admit that I'm blindsided by my animosity towards a system that hides the struggles of their people. But I can't help it, I've been conditioned over years of pain to feel this way, and it'll take a lot more than a pretty little rich girl to change my views overnight.
What I refuse to acknowledge is the possibility that I'm well on my way to seeing the world through less, anger-induced eyes. I don't know anything other than irrational hatred towards those with the money and status to help, but who lack the inclination to do so.
Now, who's out of their depth?
~oOo~
A/N - This chapter was a couple of days late, I'm sorry. I know I told some of you I was hoping for a Monday update, but life got in the way.
The good news? I'm currently writing chapter 21 of this story ... so we have a loooong journey ahead with these two. fasten your seatbelts! I'll 'see' you all next week! In the meantime, let me know what you think :)