Hi!
Thank you to The Lemonade Stand for featuring BCG on their blog last Monday.
During the week, BCG also blew past the 1,000 review threshold, so first of all a BIG thank you to my readers for making this possible. Emski1977 left the 1k review and, in keeping with BCG tradition, you win an outtake of your choice. So get your thinking cap on!
One thing about last week's chapter. It wasn't filler. And it wasn't useless. Every single detail in the story has a purpose, but it may not be clear right away. Think about it in terms of breadcrumbs: they need to be followed. Edward being able to look in while Bella does research and flings improbable names left, right, and center, is not just a side show. It's Bella letting him into her world. He's been asking her to tell him about her writing, and this is Bella opening the door wide. So far, Bella's been flung into Edward's world. Now, it's Edward's turn to experience Bella's.
The names were mentioned in the AN because they have a specific origin, and I have a duty as an author to give credit where it is due.
Alice's White Rabbit, Midnight Cougar and SunflowerFran wield the red pens. RobsmyyummyCabanaboy and Deh are my plot coaches and shoulders to cry on. I am a tinkerer, though, so any errors left are my own boo-boos.
Next up ... Whose name in the story starts with an M and ends with "trouble"?
BUSINESS CLASS GIRL – Chapter 34
BCG
"This has gone way beyond any limits there may be to either decency or ridicule," I spit into the phone, connecting my Bluetooth earpiece. I need my hands free for this conversation.
Angela is relaying the latest about Marcus's antics. We tried to do this the adult way, the professional way.
Ang passed along to the publishers who had expressed an interest so far that we'd revised our game plan and would go about things a little differently. Instead of shopping the manuscript around privately, she'd arrange to put it up for auction when the time was right. No advance agreements. No options. No signing on the dotted line—yet.
She thought this would catch two birds with one stone—get Marcus off my back and maximise exposure for my upcoming debut novel.
As it turns out, this is one of the rarest of rare instances where Angela is being proven partially wrong. It's maximising exposure all right—and causing quite a stir for an unfinished, unsold manuscript, she tells me.
But as for Marcus backing off? Forget it.
As soon as he heard about the option, his pestering efforts amped up tenfold. Much to Angela's annoyance and mine. She's exhausted all the polite and impolite ways she knows to fend him off, and I'm about to unleash my inner berserk on him. The one thing stopping me is my concern with making a bad reputation for me in the industry—that is, even before I have one. And, on top of that, I have no desire whatsoever to deal with the guy. I'd rather he just disappeared into a black hole, never seen again. How my perspective has changed since I saw him at Ang's Christmas party all those months back. The baronial charm has quite lost its shine.
"Are you sure he's not in New York? Assistants lie about their bosses' whereabouts all the time." The last thing I need is Marcus appearing out of the blue in London.
Her reaction sounds halfway between a chuckle and a groan. "Because you'd know all about that, right?"
"Bite me, Ang. You know what I mean."
I keep pacing around the kitchen and living room, tossing my trusted golf ball from one hand to the other. Other than this, I'm trying to keep my voice down because Edward is sleeping. And he'd have a conniption if he knew about Marcus's latest stunts.
"Sorry, B. I'm as pissed off as you are. To your question, though, I checked. Intel's not bogus. He's not in the US."
"Oh, fuck. He can't have, can he?"
"You sure you're not overreacting?"
"Overreacting? Do I need to show you the thirty-five emails, twenty-eight missed calls, sixteen voicemails, and forty-seven texts I've had to stomach in the last ten days? Actually, longer than that," I add in a whisper with an afterthought.
"What do you mean? I thought he flipped out because of the auction." There's a hard edge to her voice, as if she's running alternative scenarios in her head. An image pops up in my brain—Ang in her office, dressed to the nines, Louboutins kicked against her desk, as she chews on the purple frame of her eyeglasses.
"Oh, he flipped out all right. But now I think about it, it happened right after the Globes."
"He's been hounding you, how long? Almost three months?"
"Basically? I wrote it off as typical Marcus behaviour, but he's gone through the roof since we got to London and you announced the auction."
"I see," she replies, pensive, her voice almost trailing off. "B, I can get the Colonel involved if need be. Discreetly."
I plop down on the couch since the pacing has done jack squat to ease my aggravation.
"Ang, I think there's only one thing we can do."
"Which would be?"
A tortured sound between a scoff and a sigh leaves my lips.
"Enough with the creepy sounds through the Bluetooth earpiece, B. You're weirding me out."
"Sorry. I just wish I could punch something."
"Someone, you mean."
I can tell she's irritated. She feels awful, as if it's her responsibility that Marcus is being an entitled, overbearing prick. I tried to tell her it's not her; it's him. He's just drawn that way. It's genetics. He acts all righteous on the job, with his coded manuscripts and "no favouritism" policies, but when you grow up as upper crust as he did, divesting a lifetime of privilege and entitlement is easier said than done.
"That too, Ang."
"Tell me about it. Hoodwinked by a fucking baronet. That's a new one. Wait until my dad hears about it."
"No. No involving the Colonel. Because then, he'll just tell the Admiral." Angela's dad is a former NCIS special agent and has been friends with Dad since they worked on a case together on a NATO base back in the eighties. The Colonel would pass the intel along, and it would turn into a massive affair of state before I could even sneeze. Nope. Even if Marcus tends to behave like a persistent asshole when he wants to be, there's no need to involve the authorities.
"Right. You'd think they'd have better hobbies than gossiping?"
"At their age?"
"Ugh. Don't make me think about it. So, this nuclear option, ace up your sleeve, whatever? Wanna tell me about it sometime this century?"
"Yeah. It's obvious that pestering me professionally was Marcus's cover. Well, that's blown."
"Uh?" Dumbfounded Angela I have yet to see. Or hear, in this case.
"And I'm supposed to be the jet-lagged one? You're usually more articulate than this."
"Jeez, B. Cut me some slack. You know the guy; I don't."
"Don't fucking remind me. It's another item on the Reasons to Punch Jasper list."
"So, nuclear option?"
"Well, it's clear he wants something …" I trail off, hoping my tone clues her in even if she can't see my face.
"Oh. Oh. Ooooooh." Now she figures it out.
"He won't stop until he gets it," I scoff. "But what he doesn't know …"
"… is that you're taken. Like, really taken. What a fucking jerk. What do you plan on doing, B?"
"Meet him and talk to him. He'll never back off otherwise."
The chaotic sound of china clattering to the floor with shards ricocheting in every direction startles me just as Edward's voice thunders from the kitchen.
"You will do nothing of the sort."
"Uh-oh. Lover boy awake?" asks Ang. "Well, I guess I'll leave you two to it. Tons to discuss."
Per Angela's standard operating procedure, she hangs up without saying goodbye. Hanging me out to dry.
How do I go about this with Edward without either of us going postal over it?
I wrench the earpiece from my ear and throw it. It lands somewhere on the coffee table. "I didn't mean to wake you."
"Or you didn't mean for me to hear that?" he spits out.
He's standing with his arms braced against the kitchen counter, his back slightly arched to look down at where I'm sitting. He's sporting the I just got out of bed Edward look—barefoot, bare-chested, grey sleep pants hanging low on his hips, hair even more haphazard than usual. It should be illegal to look this distracting before seven a.m. Especially if your girlfriend is on the way to being annoyed with you.
"How much of that did you hear?"
"Enough." His voice is rough, hoarse—not just from sleep. He sounds as if pushing words out is causing him physical pain.
I can't have this conversation with him from across the room. I walk over to him and lean my head against his back, coiling my arms around his midriff.
Bad idea because now I'm thinking about his abs, and I'm in dangerous proximity to his bare skin and to the muscles on his back flexing under my touch. Awful idea.
He stands a little straighter to thread one of his hands with mine. "I've heard enough, love. Enough to know I don't want you to put yourself through that. Not alone."
"I can't have Angela or you fight my battles for me."
His fist pounds the counter. "Goddammit, Bella. You said yourself the wanker wants something. And he's been harassing you now?" He pounds the counter again, and again, and again at every word.
"Stop, Edward, stop! You're going to hurt your hand."
"I don't care about my fucking hand, Isabella!" he roars, turning around to grab me by the shoulders. "I don't care about Marcus fucking Goldsmith. I only care about you because I love you, dammit. I won't sit on the sidelines while that idiot worms his way back into your life to hurt you. I won't."
He lets out this frantic torrent of words as his arms clutch me tightly to his chest, cradling me and rocking me back and forth. Then he props his hips against the counter, bending his legs to plant them on either side of mine so he can keep me closer. I melt into him, ghosting kisses up his chest.
"I love you too."
"Good. That works for me. You're still not seeing that wanker alone. It's not safe."
Now he's testing my patience, abs or no abs. "Since when do you get to tell me what I can and cannot do?"
His hands move up to cradle my face until my forehead touches his. "I don't mean it that way, love," he concedes.
"It sounds that way from where I'm standing."
"No. Fuck. Yes. Fuck. No. I'm going about this the wrong way, aren't I?"
"Talk to me, Edward. In English?"
He peers into my eyes with an intensity I cannot even begin to fathom. "Kiss me first, love. I need to know you're here with me."
Now I feel like shit for getting testy with him in the first place. Sometimes, it still surprises me—how all-encompassing our love can be, how his love for me rearranges the polarity of our combined worlds.
His lips are on mine in an instant, caressing, teasing, probing; his hands knot in my hair and mine in his. My body falls into his, cradled to his chest, trapped between his legs, until he grinds into me, and I feel him hard and longing against me.
I have to come up for air—and I have to stop him. We won't solve this with sex. We'll solve this by talking it out.
"Edward, stop. Please."
"Ugh." He pulls away from me with a strangled groan. "Goddammit, Bella. You're right. I'm sorry. I'm a fucking idiot. But I love you. God help me, I do. And I worry about you."
"And I love you, Edward. But we need to talk about this. You're not charming your way out of this with panty-dropping kisses, Mr Cullen," I quip, bumping my head against his chest. Another terrible idea because, in the process, I catch a glimpse of his dick tenting his pants.
"Panty-dropping, you say?" he replies with a playful tone, snaking a hand around my back to cup my ass. I swat it away.
"Behave, Cullen."
"Fine. Be that way," he counters in what I know to be his fake crestfallen tone.
"Let's move this to the couch. Your abs are too distracting for what purports to be a serious conversation."
He flashes me a cocky grin, but complies when I disentangle myself from his embrace to go sit back on the couch beside him.
"You say 'purports' at seven a.m., and I'm supposed to have a serious conversation with you and not touch you? You don't play fair, woman."
"Never said I would."
He sighs, batting his tented fingers rhythmically against his nose. "I'm trying not to be a Neanderthal about this, love. But I'm coming up empty. That bloke is bad news. This sounds all sorts of not safe. I don't want to see you hurt. Again. Or manipulated into something you don't want. Or worse."
"What if I told you he can't hurt me anymore? That he can't manipulate me? I'm done. I just want him off my back and out of my life. STAT."
Now he's tormenting his hair with one hand. The other is pinching the bridge of his nose. Edward Cullen's stress-meter is teetering on DEFCON-1.
"He tried to mess with your career and with your life. He still is. I won't tolerate it."
"Well, get in line then! Did you think I would?" I don't want to shout at Edward, but I'm damn close to it. I'm back to being annoyed, with a side dish of slightly pissed off.
He wraps an arm around my shoulders. "God, no, love. That's not what I meant. I don't want you to do this alone. I want to be there with you. For you."
I appreciate the sentiment—I really do. But it won't work. Not with Marcus. Or me, for that matter. "What if I told you I need to do this alone? Again, Edward. I don't fight your battles, you don't fight mine. What do you think Marcus would do if I showed up with you? Do you think he wouldn't try to manipulate you, too? Or rile you up for no good reason?"
"Fuck. I hate that fucking wanker."
A-ha. Edward does have good intentions but can't resist the pissing contest either.
"Fuck."
"Listen, is this really all there is to it? Which is it? Are you worried about me or having an acute fit of Neanderthalitis? Or both? Because I'd hate to think you're doing this to stake a claim in Marcus's face."
He leans against the backrest of the couch and rubs his face with both hands, muffling the string of unintelligible profanities that tumbles out of his mouth. "Bollocks, am I that transparent?"
I cock an eyebrow at him. "To me? Yeah, pretty much, baby.
"Look, I get it. I have history with this bloke, and you don't like him. Hell, I don't like him that much now and I've known him for ten years. Ang took care of the professional side of things, but he still won't take the hint. As I said the other day, he's presuming too much based on our past.
"Enough. I'm done. I'm so done that I want to send him packing and look him in the eye when I do. I want him to know it's the last time he'll ever see me. I don't particularly want to do this, but I need to. Call it closure. Call it whatever you want. I need to do this on my own, without you holding my hand. Without giving Marcus any excuse to antagonise you either.
"Are we clear?"
He stands to pace around the living room, then crouches down in front of me, holding on to my knees for balance.
"Are we sure it's not another Asshole Extraordinaire situation?" he asks.
"If you're afraid he's another abusive asshole in disguise, I see where you're coming from, and I love you for it—for wanting to keep me safe. But based on what I know of the guy, I'm reasonably certain he's not like Jake. Entitled, spoiled, highfalutin brat? Yes. Violent? No. He was raised in a world where violence is vulgar. It's almost coded into his DNA. Which doesn't mean I'm going into this wearing rose-tinted glasses. I'll make contingency plans. Meet him on my own turf, on my own terms. If he wants to see me, he can take it or leave it."
After I've said my piece, he takes a deep, cleansing breath before answering. "Fair enough. I get it. I don't necessarily like it, but I get it. I still hate the wanker. I hate that he hurt you years ago. I hate that he tried to manipulate you. I hate that he's trying to screw with your dream. I hate that he tried to get under my skin from the get-go. And I hate that I fucking let him. I still have a bad feeling about this. I'd never forgive myself if something happened to you because I couldn't keep you safe. I can't … can't lose you, love. I just can't. The thought of losing you … it just tears me apart."
I slide off the couch and fall on top of him on the floor in a heap of limbs.
"You won't. You won't ever lose me. Let alone over this, baby. I love you. Only you, Edward Cullen. Only you. You are my soul. You are my heart. Only you."
His hands trace the contours of my face. "God, Bella … I'll never love anyone else but you. My north, my south, my east, my west. My lovely."
Words are no longer enough. We roll into each other on the floor, a tangle of hands and discarded clothes. His lips and tongue claim every spot of my burning, exposed skin. His hands leave trails of fire along my back, along my thighs, and his fingers steal inside me as they probe and tease me into a frenzy of want.
When his sleep pants are a long-forgotten memory somewhere on the floor, he hovers over me, his eyes search mine peering into my heart of hearts before he slides into me with one forceful, desperate thrust.
He's not the gentle, enthusiastic, generous lover who showers me with sweet nothings late into the night. He's branding my body and soul and heart as his—and I let the wave drown me because I need him to know he's as mine as I am his.
Later, much later, we're in the middle of another environmentally conscious shower. He stands behind me while I'm rinsing off my shampoo, and he's letting his hands roam all over me.
"Move in with me," he murmurs into my ear. "When we fly back to L.A., move in with me, love. Please?"
I lean my head back to his shoulder to look him in the eye with a lazy, sated smile on my lips. "Yes."
"God, I love you, BCG."
"Always, EC. Always."
###BCG###
Twenty-four hours later, Edward and I are having breakfast in our bedroom upstairs, though not in bed—too distracting. We're sitting at each end of the bench in the bay window, with our breakfast spread laid out on the low table in front of us.
This bedroom is so huge that it takes up the entire footprint of the kitchen and living room downstairs. It has its own cosy sitting room area by the window—an oasis of peace amidst the hustle and bustle of London.
Edward's way of processing my impending showdown with Marcus is calling for his own stipulations over it. I don't mind as long as they make sense and exclude him actually being there. If this helps him retain a modicum of control and sanity over a situation that sends him over the edge, I'll go along with it.
"Where are you meeting Sir Wanker, again?"
It's funny how he no longer bothers to mask his distaste towards Marcus, down to the aptly minted nickname.
"Temple Bar Brew House."
"A pub? Where's that? And is that even a good idea?"
"Near Temple Bar, Wonder Boy. Essex Street, down by the High Court of Justice, to be precise."
A flash of recognition lights up his eyes. You can take the boy out of London but you can't take London out of the boy.
"Who's closest to that, Jasper or Rose?" He's scoping the area to identify how close the points of our support system in London are to the X that marks the spot.
"Neither. Clapham is too far south; Jazz's office is in Bishopsgate."
"So why did you pick it?"
"It's one of our old haunts. Jasper and I know the owner. Liam's a good lad who takes no crap from anybody and will keep an eye out for me. So, yes, it's a good idea. Plus, it's bound to be deserted for lunch until the lawyer crowd of Lincoln's Inn Fields filter in to get their pints after five. If, heaven forbid, Marcus seems intent on making a scene, Liam will have him out on his ear in two seconds flat and put me in a cab back home without a scratch on me. But trust me, it won't come to that. That's not the way Marcus operates."
He nods, taking a long sip of his tea to mull all this over in his head. "Fair enough."
"You know it's pretty close to Great Ormond Street."
"Is it?" he replies, grabbing a piece of toast. "I suppose it is. Well, maybe I can go hang out with the good doctor for a while and join you if you need me or want me there later."
"Can you elude the media if you do?" Being spotted would negate the whole "fly under the radar" brilliant plan.
"Yes. I've done it before. We have a system all worked out with Dad. I used to volunteer there, spend time with the kids. They know my limitations, so I'm quite sure I'm not going to get hounded, photographed, or end up on Instagram 'til I'm blue in the face."
If I didn't love him already, I'd fall for him right now. This titbit of information about him has never surfaced in media reports before. Otherwise, Rosalie would have told me how selfless and altruistic her movie crush was at some point over the years. Repeatedly.
"That's amazing. I didn't know you volunteered."
He shrugs, his typical humility kicking in. "I've never advertised it. I don't do it for the fanfare; I do it for the kids. Spending time with them today will give me some necessary perspective."
After another long sip of his tea, he asks, "So, what's the plan afterwards?"
"Pints and dinner with Jasper. It's the only evening he could wrangle out of his atrocious schedule."
He snickers, brandishing a piece of toast in my general direction. "Woman, are you having pints for lunch and dinner?"
"Your point, Cullen? I'm not driving. And I'm sure as hell going to need booze for that conversation."
Another shrug, but his eyebrows are knotted together, and his eyes just darkened. "I suppose you do. Just be safe, love. Please. No taking the Tube today."
"I'll take a cab to meet you and Jasper later."
"Where am I meeting Jasper?" he asks, now chugging down a bowl of granola and yoghurt.
"Near his office between Aldgate and Bishopsgate. Another of our old haunts. It's in the BlackBerry if you need directions for Mr Broomstick."
"Fair enough. I still don't like it, but I can live with it. One request, though."
I peer at him over the rim of my steaming mug of tea. "Depends. Is it humanly feasible?"
He flashes me his signature cocky grin. "I believe so. Give me a play-by-play of the arse-kicking you're going to visit on Sir Wanker? Over pints?"
I snicker into my Earl Grey. "I swear you're just as bad as Jasper."
"Why?" he asks, licking remnants of yoghurt off his lips.
"Because he asked for the same damn thing!"
"Well, that settles it, I guess?" Undaunted, he keeps scarfing down granola.
I throw my napkin at him.
He catches it and winks at me. "Aw, love. Don't be that way."
"Yeah, yeah. Time's a-wasting. I have an ass-kicking to get to."
"That you do, love. Come here." He beckons, rising off the bench and crooking a finger at me. I follow suit; he wraps me in his arms.
"I want to tell you a few things before you go," he begins with a soft kiss to the top of my head. "I want to apologise for behaving like a jealous prick yesterday. There's no excuse—other than … well, the thought of you being hurt turns me into a caveman. Add Sir Wanker to the mix—I go fucking medieval."
"You don't have to—"
He cuts me off with a kiss. "But I do. It was wrong of me to try to boss you around. You know how to handle yourself. I trust you. And lastly, I'm fucking proud of you for doing this. For your career and for yourself. So go, kick his arse, get your closure, and then come back to me safely, love."
I stand on my tiptoes to kiss him back. "Always, EC. Always."
The Marcus clusterfuck is up next week.
The Temple Bar Brew House is an actual pub, at the location described in the story.
Edward's words "My north, my south, my east, my west" are a quote from W.H. Auden's poem "Funeral Blues" of Four Weddings and a Funeral fame (among other things).
Oh, right ... and they are moving in together. :)
See y'all next week. Teaser on Thursday on FB in a bunch of groups (including mine: LaMomo's Lair - type that in the search bar and it should come up).