Disclaimer: The author does not own any publicly recognizable characters herein. No copyright infringement is intended.
I'm just outside Springfield when I notice the hitchhiker's thumb. When I slow, the girl doesn't turn, happy to solicit a ride from any old vehicle behind her. It's nearly dark, and yet she doesn't consider the danger from a lapse in concentration, a dropped cigarette, or spilled bottle of Coke. The driver of a rig like this could easily mistake the impact for a hole in the road. I know because I've seen someone tumble under the wheels of a truck before they heard my alert. It wouldn't happen with my explosive reflexes, but accidents like that do affect me. I hate to see the waste of human life.
I sound the horn, and she still doesn't look back, so she's either stupid or has a death wish.
Let's see which one it turns out to be.
"Where're you headed?" I ask, examining the headscarf tied under her chin, the long jacket, and bag over her shoulder.
"Canyonville." Opening the door, she pulls herself up, not even asking if I'm passing through there. "I still can't believe it." She nods at the radio that's been playing Buddy Holly, Richie Valens, and the Big Bopper all day.
"The plane crash?" I query.
"Yeah, they're saying Waylon Jennings was supposed to be on the flight."
"I heard he gave up his seat for the Big Bopper."
"I heard that, too. Richie Valens was younger than me."
Not by much, I imagine, when her untainted blood has such an impossible allure. With venom pooling, I steel myself, remembering she's accepting a ride in my truck, not offering herself as a meal. I quickly need to find out who she is and why she's here in my cab.
"Aren't you a little young to be out on the roads at this time of the day? It's cold."
"Aren't you a little young to be a truck driver?" she asks, bristling, obviously resenting my remark, and I see how it could come across as patronizing when I know nothing about her. "How old are you?"
"I'm older than I look." People often try to make sense of me when I seem too young for this line of work, but I haven't aged in a while.
She looks at me and shrugs, then joins in with Buddy Holly singing, "Maybe Baby." When the song ends, she picks up the conversation as if we never clashed. "I'm going home to practice the makeup for my sister's wedding on Saturday. I go to beauty school in Springfield."
Nothing comes to mind to help me visualize her upcoming week.
"So, it's a kind of assignment?"
"That's right," she states proudly, then giggles. "And boy is this one I cannot afford to fail."
She's amusing, and I don't see her as someone who fails at anything. For a second, I feel an old attraction to the mind of a spirited woman. However, it's not strong enough to temper my fascination with the flawless skin of her neck or a thirst I can barely contain. All I can do to distract myself is to find another radio station.
She puts her hand out to stop me, hovering in the air for a moment, and I notice her immaculate, glossy fingernails. "Do you mind leaving this on?"
I hear the request, but I'm struggling with a spot on her wrist that's pulsing. If I disable her, then run far away with her body, I can take her life force in private and sprinkle the leftovers through the forests. Once I resume my southerly course on Interstate 5, no one can connect me to a murder without remains.
She's waiting for my answer, and I know I'm close to breaking a promise I've kept for years. This lust for a certain type of blood is the worst part of being a vampire, an almost insurmountable battle, but nothing is worth the aftertaste from the blood of an innocent.
"Sure." I let her take over the radio and the conversation for the next seventy miles. I learn a lot about weddings and idolizing older sisters.
I come out of sleep when the covers lift off me.
"Edward."
Opening my eyes, I smile at my doctor, my confidant, and friend. Carlisle Cullen has been with us through the best and the worst life has thrown our way, and he's someone I trust. Sitting up, I try to get comfortable.
"How are you sleeping?" he asks, taking my pulse.
"The CBD is incredible, but I'm now having vivid dreams—all the time."
"Any good ones?" he asks with genuine curiosity, but I'm not introducing the monster that inhabits my subconscious while he's preparing to draw my blood.
"Not really."
"Nightmares?" he persists, but I need to make an announcement.
"I'm not taking the drugs anymore, Carlisle. Just so you know."
His reaction is only a momentary glance. I don't mean to interrupt his concentration when he's so good at jabbing me painlessly. It never even stings where he's been.
"Then keep that to yourself, Edward. People will feel obligated to intervene, myself included."
"We both know they're no longer helping me."
I would end these blood tests, too, but they're over quickly and provide something for Carlisle to measure. At least he no longer spends time explaining the results.
His pale eyes catch mine when he finishes his task, and I believe he might be finally resigning himself to my death.
"Perhaps, but I can't help you take your life."
"Bella already took it when she died, so there's no reason to exist like this anymore."
"Three children, four grandchildren, Edward–"
"Who do not deserve the responsibility of an old man's geriatric care." I rest my hand on his arm, but I'm suddenly too weak to squeeze.
He sighs, then seals the plastic bag and touches my knee, signaling he's about to leave. "You're so sure there's life after death. I wish I had your faith."
"My wife is tapping her foot impatiently, waiting for me."
Shaking his head, he picks up the leather case he's had for decades. He knows that when I say I can't go on without Bella, it's the God's honest truth, but he might look for signs of mental decline if I admit she is visiting me.
"Shelly said Riley is coming today."
"This afternoon."
"Well, enjoy your son," he says with the weight of his hand on my shoulder.
"Thanks. I will."
Shelly sees him out the door, then brings me a tray with something to eat. I hate how our housekeeper has become my caregiver, but I'm very grateful she's here. I'll drink the tea and finish the sandwich she's prepared for me, but I'm going to have to tell her not to bother with the tablets, and she will resist that finality.
"Are Bree and the kids coming?" she asks, opening the full expanse of curtains, bringing Burrows and Allan Islands into the room. There's snow from the storm last night.
This view is the reason we decided to build at Anacortes when a pregnant Bella hiked with me along this ridge and couldn't believe it was for sale. It's also the reason we never considered downsizing. The kids moved away a long time ago, but they settle back in as if they never left.
"No, it's just Riley."
Shelly unfolds Bella's quilt and lays it over me. "Well, it will be lovely to see him. Have a rest while I put the blueberry cobbler together. The beef stew is in the crock pot."
Feeling warm and content from the soft cover and the promise of having my son here to share her delicious food, I take her advice and close my eyes.
There are days when I think I might die from loneliness. There are times when the weather is so bad, I fear I'll lose my truck. When I'm depressed, the radio is either my best friend or my worst enemy, and if I hear "Born Free" or "Barbara Ann" or "Li'l Red Riding Hood" one more time, I'm going to pay that radio station a visit and make an in-person request the DJ will never forget.
Who names a band Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs?
The rain has been constant all day, and the hitchhiker up ahead looks like he could do with some saving. The pathetic creature is as drenched as the timber logs I'm hauling.
I'm miserable and desperate for conversation, so I pull in and wind down the window. "Where're you headed?"
"Portland," he sings out, using his hand to shield the downpour from his eyes. I turn down the radio, drape a towel over the seat, and open the door. When he climbs up, I'm surprised this bag of bones has the strength to yank the door shut.
Checking there's no one coming up behind, I ease the rig out on the highway. Once he's settled, he takes out a pack of cigarettes and tilts them toward me.
"Not in here."
I tolerate the human stench, as it provides them with a kind of protection. Body odor and stale breath leave when they get out, but the smell of cigarette smoke clings long after they exit my cab. He can't see my vicious glare through these sunglasses, but he must sense the shift in my demeanor when the cigarettes go back in his pocket. After five minutes of silence, I ask a simple question to break the ice.
"What brings you to Salem?"
"Pussy," he declares with a grin so smug I want to wipe it from his face. I despise the insolent attitude toward something he should revere, and replying to a stranger in this fashion shows he's no more than scum.
"Your girlfriend?" I inquire, hoping to wring a few drops of decency from this sorry excuse for a man, but I have to turn away, disgusted by a flash of his rotten teeth.
"She was seventeen and I'm forty-two, so she was hardly a girlfriend. The girl was a kitten and fast, so . . . why wouldn't I?"
I'm suddenly building the kind of thirst that could end with me ripping him apart.
"I didn't love her."
"You don't have to say any more," I implore, praying he won't incense me further. At least he talks about her in the past tense, giving me hope their sordid affair has come to an end.
"What?" He looks at me, frowning. "She liked what we did."
I'm unsure why he's pleading a case he will never win in my court. All I see is a filthy predator, openly making admissions like this because he assumes all men think the same.
His heartbeat pounds louder and louder in my ears, and I will soon erupt if I can't replace the bloodbath clouding my head.
"So what's in Portland?" I ask, desperate for a change in subject.
"My wife and son. You know I told that little bitch not to get herself pregnant, so I doubt she'll be surprised when I don't return."
"Is she expecting you back?" I know I should stop the interrogation immediately, but I can't help verifying he's abandoned the poor girl who is not much more than a child.
"Who cares? I don't want another mouth to feed, so I arranged to get rid of it. She is probably there now, working out I won't be holding her hand."
I look ahead for a place to pull in because he's getting out or I'm killing him. Just as I'm slowing down, he turns up the radio and starts singing the red riding hood song. When he bares those hideous teeth, I snap and paralyze him. He's not dead, of course. He'll wait quietly now until I drain his blood, then offer up what's left to the scavengers of nature.
The world is already a better place without him.
"Hey, handsome." Bella's voice and smile greet me when I wake. She's lounging on the window seat, bare feet and long legs bent at the knees, looking just as she did when we first moved into the house.
"Hey, yourself." I wish she were real, but this is one of the better symptoms of brain cancer.
"It's not the cancer," she states, reading my mind. "It's your time, Edward. Your memories are coming to the surface." There's something familiar about all of this, and yet I can't say if it's part of a dream or a true memory.
In the early days of my terminal diagnosis, I feared a painful end, but I should have known that even in death, Bella would make me yearn to join her in the afterlife.
I actually feel a tingle when her lips brush my cheek. Moving the hair across my forehead, she smiles. "I'll be back to see Riley."
Riley calls from Bellingham Airport, giving me fifty minutes to smarten myself up so I don't look like someone who's about to croak. Clean-shaven, I toy with an untucked button-up shirt, then add a sweater. The cancer is going to finish me off soon, and I don't want to spend a rare weekend together discussing my weight loss.
It's nearly a year since Bella's accident, and the first time we've been alone to talk about a son losing his mother. I respect the man he has become, even more than I'm proud of the way he's running the foundation. He has revolutionized the way we collect donations, no longer needing big fundraisers for large sums of money. I would never have thought that so many people would part with small subscriptions each month. He's also shown his flair in partnering with companies who will match donations for the rights to advertise to our benefactors. It's genius, really.
I'm also hoping he's had a chance to read the book, because if it's as good as my editor believes, it will have to be their legacy. Heaven knows they'll be memory rich and cash poor from what we're leaving them. I won't be here to care, but I honestly doubt they'll sell this house, so that will just leave the apartment in Seattle.
"Riley!" I hear Shelly out front. "You look wonderful."
"So do you, Mrs. Cope! How's Dad?"
The long pause is painful, and I wonder what she's telling him with her eyes. "He's good—dying to see you."
Dying to see you. She's hilarious.
"Dad!" He bursts into the kitchen, but stops when he gets a good look at me. He lets go of his bag, and I finally feel him relax once he's in my arms. "I forget how much I miss you and this house."
When I hold him at arm's length, we grin at each other. He's a sight for sore eyes—forty-five and hitting his prime late, just like his old man. All of a sudden, I'm filled with joy, remembering the day I found out I had dived into a gene pool. That I contributed much more than my fair share to this one is still evident, because Riley could be my twin if I was twenty-five years younger. All three of our kids have my green eyes, but the girls are more like their mother.
As I'm becoming emotional, Shelly pulls the cobbler from the oven, and the aroma stirs a very happy memory. We're here, but in the old kitchen, a young Riley with Bella trying to settle Jane in her arms. For a whole year, we couldn't comfort that child without Bella pressing her to one of her breasts.
Bella and Riley had made the dough for an apple pie the day before, and Jane started howling as they were dusting the counter with flour to roll it out. I was useless at settling babies, so Bella took her, assuring Riley the pie could wait for a day, but he was so gutted that she ended up swaying with Jane in her arms and teaching us males to make pie. Bella had a way of elevating the simple pleasures, reliving the joy of their first discovery, and we were the lucky schmucks whose lives she made special.
We told Riley that his apple pie was the best we ever tasted, and there was never a bigger kid's smile or one that lasted so long. It's the smile I'm looking at right now.
"You remember?" I ask.
"You reminded me," he confirms, lifting the lid of the crock pot and moaning. "Chapter three, wasn't it?"
"Ah. So how far have you read?"
"I finished it, Dad, and I've spoken to Jane and Alex. You never said you and Mom wrote it together, but I can clearly hear both of your voices."
I'm so pleased he noticed. "Do you think your sisters will like it?"
His eyebrows pop, and I wonder about his hesitation to answer.
"They will love it. My only concern is that chapter about the summer of love. We grew up in a house where the parents had the hots for each other, but does the world need to know you were nudists?"
I don't have to justify the way we lived to anyone, least of all to my son. We weren't hurting a living soul, and I'm frankly sick of re-writing this book. At some point, we have to be done with it.
He rolls his eyes when I don't answer. "She called you the sexiest man alive."
"Your point is?" I ask, trying to stave off a laugh. "I worked very hard for that title."
"Dad, we're not ashamed, but you risk cutting off half your market by crossing boundaries unnecessarily."
"There you go. I knew we had you for a reason. Who would have ever thought I'd need a marketing expert?"
"Please don't be angry." He's actually sighing when I was trying to be funny.
"I'm not, Riley, and I won't be around when the book is released, so you and your sisters decide what's appropriate."
He shudders. "Has Dr. Cullen given you any–"
"No, and we're not discussing that."
The way he nods assures me he won't bring up the subject again.
"We've written a summary if you're interested," he says, cringing.
I chuckle. "I'm surprised it took a whole ten days for your input."
At least he's smiling again. "Do you want me to read it?"
"I'd love that." I can think of nothing better than hearing him read to me.
"Okay." He looks nervous, getting out his iPad and asking if I need a glass of water. When I decline, he blows out a big breath of air, and faces his challenge like a warrior. Amazing. He must have been in junior high school when I taught him that.
"Edward and Bella Masen have devoted their lives to helping those who lost their way or didn't get such a great start in life. Today, their three children, Riley, Jane, and Alexandra proudly share the helm of the Masen Foundation."
He waits, poised for my approval.
"Good."
"Bella Swan jokingly referred to herself as an orphan because no family ever tried to adopt her. She only had a name because it was written on her skin, probably by the person who left her as a newborn at a hospital in Phoenix and never returned to claim her. Like many abandoned kids who grow up without the rudder of family, she was often in trouble. Bella would not have wanted to detail those days for this book, except to say she is forever grateful to the handful of people who kept her out of the juvenile system. She always insisted her real life started when she hitched a ride into Edward Masen's life and knew she'd found family."
"Perfect. She would not have wanted you to say any more."
"That was Alex's contribution," he states with a smile, then narrows his eyes at me. "Now you."
I'm eager to hear what they've written about me.
"Edward grew up in Claremont, New Hampshire, with parents who loved each other deeply. They were openly 'affectionate' while he was growing up, and he loved nothing better than embarrassing his own children in a similar way. If we ever objected, he'd want to know how we expected him to resist such a beautiful wife, then Mom would react to his compliment and the kissing would start over.
"The three of us know we've been blessed to have these two as our parents."
"I love it. Is that it?"
"Not quite. Just a little more."
"At the age of twenty, Edward was orphaned by tragedy. His father was killed in a construction accident and his heartbroken mother committed suicide. He never completed his engineering degree, moving to the other side of the country and becoming a truck driver, a decision he insists was his best because it led him to Bella.
"Those are pretty modest beginnings for a couple who has won the Conrad N. Hilton Humanitarian Prize and developed projects for UNICEF."
I don't really care that he's gonna see me cry. It won't be the first time, and I doubt it will be the last. I'm honored they've written these words.
"Thank you."
"I miss her, Dad, all the time. I can't imagine what it's like for you."
He's breaking down in front of me, and it's my fault.
"Hey." I sling an arm around him. "I had her for fifty years and she made me happy every single day. No one should ever feel sorry for me."
"I want to hear her say, 'I want to show you something!' or throw her arms in the air and sing out 'Wooooo!'"
He looks like a boy as he relives these treasured memories.
"She was the most observant person—always first to spot the rainbow or shooting star."
I have to add my own. "Brand new mushrooms, the first daffodil to poke out in spring."
"A hug from her was like–"
"I know. It was."
"I just wanted a girl to smile at me when I kissed her. Mom loved your kisses."
"Damn right she did."
"You didn't want to include a chapter on your lives before you met?"
"We discussed it. Bella was against it, and I doubt I could fill a whole chapter. Anyway, it would detract from the rest of our story."
"It's part of who you are, Dad."
I didn't want to share what it was like to be summoned to the Dean's office to find out my father had died. It was hard discovering there was no money put aside for another year of education and that the bank would be foreclosing on their mortgage. I didn't think anyone would want to read about my mother's crumbling mental health, and I certainly didn't want to write the scene where I found her hanging from a pipe in the bathroom. I was unclear about why I left New Hampshire. I had a feeling it had something to do with a girlfriend, and that it was something bad–
"Ready for dinner?" Shelly asks at the perfect moment, steering me away from the dark path I was wandering down.
The answer to her question is a couple of grins. I've been ready for hours.
We have some very nice Cab Sav before Shelly goes home. We thank her for the delicious dinner, and Riley follows her out to say goodbye. Shelly doesn't share my taste in music, but I have "Fortunate Son" playing by the time she's gone.
"Does she go home every night?" Riley asks as he pours himself another glass of wine, and I'm glad he doesn't know how things have changed in the last couple of months.
"Not since her cat died."
"Jake is gone? How old was that fleabag?"
"Nineteen, I think."
He's quiet for a while, and I imagine he's mulling over the passage of time.
"So . . . what if something happens during the night?"
"I feel great tonight, actually. My son is here and Creedence is playing. I've had CBD and wine. I'm enjoying myself."
"Seriously, Dad."
I wish he'd stop being such a drag. "I have a personal alarm, okay? I hang it round my neck or wear it as a watch, so I can always call for help. There's an app for the phone."
"And Shelly gets the call."
"Carlisle."
His shoulders drop, and I would tell him we have a plan for every contingency if I didn't know he'd ask me to explain them all.
"Please come to Seattle so we can look after you?"
This is my son trying to appease his sister. Jane will keep pushing for what she thinks is best for me, but she must realize she didn't get her stubborn streak from her mother. I am not spending my last days in some facility, and I'm not arguing about it tonight.
"Cut me a slice of that cobbler? I have some photos to show you."
Without waiting for his answer, I strut my way up the hallway and open the closet where we keep beach towels, board games, and other family stuff. This box contains photos that Bella and I chose as our favorites. They've all been scanned, so I'm happy for him to take them back to Seattle. I just need to explain who some of the people are.
He's eaten most of his cobbler when I sit down and open the lid. I lift out the first photo and place it on the table.
"1949. Teddy and Elizabeth Masen in the main street of Claremont the day they bought their land."
"Wow," he responds, pushing his plate to the side. "This is fragile."
"It's okay. They're all scanned, and you can decide if you want to include some of them in the book."
"Was this a classic car club day?"
The question throws me a little. "I don't know. Why?"
"Look at the license plates with only five numbers all the way up the street. By 1949, we were using six. That's a 1928 Phantom and this is a 1930 Plymouth."
I never really noticed. To me, they just looked old. "I'm sorry, but the car fascination skipped a generation. It was definitely 49 or 50 because Mom said she was pregnant at the time."
I move on to the next photo. "This is us with my truck. I bought her brand new with my inheritance."
"Mom always said the truck was old, but it looked new."
Suddenly, I want to argue, but I'm concerned about my memory. Riley looks carefully at the photo and replaces his frown with a look of wonder. "It's definitely old, but . . . Oh. My. God. You two are so young!"
"I think I was still twenty-one, and Bella was nineteen or twenty. Isn't she gorgeous?"
"Yeah, she was such a flower child. Where did you live?"
"Forks."
"No, I mean before you met Mom."
I try to think of the answer, and nothing comes.
"Did you have a permanent place or were you staying in motels?"
His prompt should be helping, but it isn't. I've drawn a complete blank. "I honestly don't remember."
"You don't remember where you lived?"
I don't know which one of us is more embarrassed. "Sorry."
"Okay, Dad, no big deal."
We both know he doesn't mean it. He holds my stare for far too long before returning to the photo.
There's the slightest movement of air, and Bella is sitting up on the counter, blowing me a kiss. I acknowledge her with my eyes, disappointed when Riley remains focused on the image.
"You were a couple of hippies."
I wonder if she's shown up now because of the song currently playing. We always cranked up the volume when "Sweet Hitchhiker" came on, and Riley and Bella are currently singing a duet. It's such a shame she's only a figment of the cancer in my brain, because I'd love him to know what they're sharing.
"This is Forks?" he asks when he picks out another photo from the box.
"Wedding day," I reply, but he's seen photos like this one before. "The Reverend and his daughter."
"You haven't written much about how you settled in Forks, either. You came from New Hampshire and Mom from Arizona, so why Washington State?"
"It's a strange kind of story unless you were there at the time, so we agreed it was better left out of the book."
"What's strange about it?"
"The day after I met your mother, she asked me to drive her up north. Although she claimed she'd never been there before, she navigated all the way from Seattle. I just turned where she told me to turn until we arrived at this place on the edge of a forest with a church, a couple of cabins, and a big old barn.
"Bella climbed down from the truck, walked up to the church door, and knocked like they were expecting her. A man appeared from one of the cabins and spoke to her before she beckoned me over to introduce me to the Reverend. She had told him we were strong and could work in return for a place to stay, and that was all it took for him to agree. Within minutes, she had his trust, and because I was with her, he trusted me.
"Reverend Weber wanted to go off and recruit souls for Jesus, but he couldn't leave his daughter alone. Angela was supposed to be married already, but her betrothed, Eric, either died or was lost somewhere in Vietnam. He only ever sent one letter from Hanoi, and he wasn't officially classed as missing in action, so it was all a bit of a mystery. When we first met her, she was wearing his engagement ring.
"Since I owned a rig, I could make my money on short hauls, and this seemed like the perfect start for us until the Reverend found out we weren't married. There was no way he was leaving a single man with his daughter. He asked us if we'd agree to be married, and Bella and I both answered, 'Yes.' I had known her for less than a week, so I hadn't proposed, and Bella wore Angela's never-used wedding dress for a ceremony Angela had to leave because she was sobbing."
"Okay," Riley states. "It's too strange for me."
"Angela Weber was headed for a life of bitter spinsterhood when we met her, and yet it only took Bella giving her a little confidence for her to blossom. Unknown to anyone, the girl could bake, and Bella took one of her apple pies to the local baker and asked Mr. Cheney to try it. He didn't ask for the recipe; he offered her a job, and over the next few months, Ben Cheney became a regular afternoon visitor. They eventually married and had two children while building their company selling frozen pies.
"That's what I wanted to write about: your mother's incredible gift of finding untapped talent, and turning it into something life-changing. I see the same gift in you, and that's why I'm two hundred percent happy to leave the foundation in your hands."
"Don't sell Jane and Alex short, Dad. They work very hard."
"I understand you couldn't do it without them, but they follow your lead, like I followed your mother's."
I eat my cobbler while he goes through a dozen more photos. The only people he queries are Jasper and Alice who moved into the other cabin when Angela found herself a career and a husband. Jasper came to help renovate the church. It was his first job after returning from Vietnam, and he gradually healed in our isolation and freedom. He stayed to create a haven that welcomed people to come and talk—a center that is still operating.
Riley eventually says he remembers them from Bella's funeral. He stares at the photo, stuck somehow, and I see tears in his eyes.
"Why did she have to go after that fucking ball?"
Bella is still sitting on the kitchen counter, but she's no longer smiling. After a few seconds, she's gone.
"It annoyed her, sitting out on the ledge like that. No one imagined the rock would collapse."
"Michael still thinks it's his fault. He's not going to play baseball again."
"Well, I can talk to him about his guilt if you want, but I'll be telling him that he has to let it go, because it won't bring his grandmother back."
Riley presses his fingers to his eyes, and I feel like I should have stopped him from drinking so much wine, but I wonder if I would have listened to my father's advice at forty-five.
"How come you're so strong, Dad?"
"It still feels like she's here with me."
I love that he looks around the ceiling as if he might find her floating up there. I also love that he smiles when he joins in to sing with me.
"Yesterday, and days before
Sun is cold and rain is hard
I know, been that way for all my time
'Til forever, on it goes
Through the circle, fast and slow,
I know, it can't stop, I wonder
"I want to know, have you ever seen the rain?
I want to know, have you ever seen the rain?
Comin' down on a sunny day"
We live in a place of majestic beauty, where forests have waterfalls and swimming holes. The whole area is spectacular, and we try to explore whenever we have free time.
Our forest echoes bird calls, the crack of twigs under our shoes, the sound of leaves swishing in the canopy breeze. I'm acutely aware of my mate and the sexual energy between us. Alone like this, we only have to lock eyes for me to want her bare.
I lead her away from the roots of giant trees and into the dappled light of the lush summer meadow. Sunlight heats and amplifies the perfection of her skin—contours of light and shade are like pathways for my kisses. I am obsessed with the taste of her lust. Once she's on my tongue, my thirst for more is inexplicable, and I'm lucky she likes this side of me because it sometimes feels more like feasting than making love.
She's in my lap, swiveling her hips, and the little "uh" is my latest infatuation. She's wet and sizzling hot, and she knows I can't get enough of her.
"I put a spell on you." Oh yeah, she's gonna sing to the music in her head.
Her nails scratch at the nape of my neck, and her other hand slides across my shoulders, hugging me close.
"Because you're mine."
I bite her neck, and her pussy squeezes me. "You better believe it, baby."
"You better stop the thing that you're doin'."
I lift her slightly, but she sinks back down. "Watch out, I ain't lyin'."
She bounces on my dick and takes control.
"I ain't gonna take none of your, foolin' around."
It goes without saying that I'm not going anywhere, anytime soon. She's getting tighter, pulling my hair, and this will end too soon if I don't slow things down.
We stroll back to the cabin, floating from our loved-up afternoon, and Angie knocks on our door as soon as Ben leaves. She asks to speak to Bella in such an awkward way that I make myself scarce, but I'm wondering if something has happened between her and Ben, so I stay within earshot.
"Ben and I took a walk this afternoon."
Bella sighs. "Such a beautiful day."
It was the most perfect afternoon, one of the last of the summer, and I sensed magic when a butterfly landed on Bella's finger and flapped its wings in slow motion.
"We saw you and Edward at the meadow."
As the daughter of a minister and missionary, I've been expecting her to say something for a while. It's obvious Angela doesn't understand our sexual freedom, always walking by when we're making out on the porch, or in the barn, or when I'm working on the truck, or chopping wood, and she comes to our door when we're having sex during the day. Bella assures me it will stop once I answer the door in the nude, but I haven't had the balls to test it out.
I'm listening carefully, because I will speak up if this is some sort of reprimand, and she tries to dampen my wife's natural sexuality.
"He licks you between the legs?"
"Yes," Bella declares explicitly.
"And it doesn't embarrass you?"
"No, he's my husband."
"You . . . do those things to him?"
"Yes, it drives him wild."
Angie's gasp is so loud I feel like I should clear my throat and put an end to this instantly. "He forces you?"
"Of course not. I want to. I'm in love with him."
Oh, my heart. It's like Cupid just shot me again. I'm completely in love with her too, and I'll prove it the moment we're alone.
"I've heard that men can touch in a certain way so intercourse is not uncomfortable."
"Honestly, Ang, I've never felt uncomfortable unless we're in a weird position or down on the floor."
This does happen when the sheets are on the line and our dining table is otherwise employed. I have to press my hand firmly against my mouth and keep it there so they don't discover I'm finding their private conversation utterly compelling.
"Oh, Bella. You poor girl. At my father's insistence, you've had to marry an animal!"
"I don't think so. Half the time it's me wanting him, and I don't mind touching myself in that certain way so he can concentrate on his own pleasure."
"Dear Lord. Dear Lord."
Dear Lord is right, so I hope Angela is sitting down. I had no idea Bella was doing that for my benefit, but I'm telling her all the wicked places my mind goes when I watch her stimulating herself. She needs to appreciate it's the polar opposite of me tuning her out.
Riley is video chatting with Bree when Shelly calls us for breakfast. Over bacon and eggs, he tells me Bree's found more mystery regarding the photo of my parents.
Riley holds up the photo, and I have to put on my glasses. "This is Tremont Square in Claremont?"
I nod, because I've always thought that's where it was taken.
"Do you remember the trolley cars, Dad?"
I have a growing headache, so it's difficult to concentrate. Yes. No. I'm not sure. "I don't remember ever catching one, but we both know my memory is not what it was."
"I can answer the question for you," Riley states, assuredly. "The trolley cars were gone from Claremont by 1945, so this is either somewhere else or the year is wrong."
There's little point in protesting. Bree is a historian and would've leapt at a challenge like this. She has probably uncovered other reasons why the photo is older than I believed.
Riley stares at me for a second, as if he's worried I'm not seeing the significance of what he's pointing out.
"We can't publish a photo that's dubious, Dad."
"Don't use it if you think it raises questions. I really don't care."
I get up and go into my bathroom, taking a capsule of CBD with my name on it.
"There's more, Dad."
God help me. Since I'm in charge of administering, I pop another one before I return.
"Okay."
"Why is there no record of Edward Masen attending Harvard in 1968 or 1969?"
I don't understand why he presents this as my problem. "No idea."
"There is an Edward Masen on the roll in 1948 and 1949."
"That could be my dad, I suppose." I'm letting words tumble out without considering them properly. My father was not twenty-one when I was born.
"No, that's when Grandpa was living in England."
I remember distinctly being at the dining table with Mom reading his letters full of fascinating post-war anecdotes. Except . . . I wasn't born until 1950, so she must have shared those years later, after discovering them in a closet, lovingly stored in a box, tied up with blue satin ribbon. I have a vivid memory of something that could not have occurred, so I'm clearly disoriented. Carlisle has warned me not to blame everything on cancer when it's normal for a seventy-year-old brain to show signs of fatigue, but I'm going to wager this is more serious than fatigue.
Over the next few hours, the pain makes me anxious. Bella is in and out. She looks worried. Shelly doesn't ask, but Carlisle arrives to give me a shot of Morphine. I know this means the end is nigh, and I can't stand them watching me, so I tell them to leave me in peace.
I don't know what's real. I'm reliving my dreams plus a whole lot more. My imagination goes rogue with things I can't know.
A seesaw of overwhelming guilt from bloodthirsty slaughter and an agony of abstinence. Red eyes of a monster in my rear view mirror. A glove compartment with spare sunglasses, a key to a post office box, and a battered copy of Dracula. Drinking blood, drinking poison, burning my skin in the sun, launching myself off a cliff. Nights in deserted cinemas watching Boris Karloff, Peter Cushing, and Christopher Lee. Horror of Dracula, Blood of Dracula, Blood and Roses, Kiss of the Vampire, Crypt of the Vampire, The Blood Beast Terror. No vampires kill the way I do in my dreams. Lurking in graveyards. Searching for another like me. A woman with flaming red hair and miles of ivory skin on top of me, under me, going down on me. The intensity of the orgasms when her teeth pierce my skin. Fucking so hard I forget who I am and what I've lost. Biting her. Tasting the moment when salty turns sweet. Recoiling and fleeing from so much of her blood and laughter. Not knowing what has happened, only that it is very wrong.
I bit Bella, too. I drank her blood.
Grabbing my laptop, I need to read what I wrote, to see if there's a tell, a something that could mean something else.
The prologue is merely an introduction to the two characters who were about to meet. I skim it and move on to chapter one, where I begin to read.
"Her wave caught me off guard, as if she was waiting for me, instead of just hanging a thumb out indiscriminately. Was it help she needed rather than a ride?"
And here they were—the memories hidden this whole time. I just left them off the page.
After what happened last time, I hadn't dared to pick up another hitchhiker, but I was starved for company, and the closer I came to her, the more I told myself she was too sweet to attack.
"I smiled at her long flowing hair and dress, the silhouette legs, heavy leather sandals, a bag slung across her chest, and a brown suede jacket over her arm. She was a true child of her time. All she needed was flowers in her hair.
"When I slowed to a stop, she didn't waste a second opening the door and climbing up."
Nudging the fan on my dash in her direction, I braced for the inevitable onslaught of blood, and it was shocking how quickly the cab filled with the scent. Summoning the guilt from the last vicious kill, I tried to focus on her obvious innocence, the most powerful protection she possessed.
"Wiggling her bottom on the seat, her face lit up as her eyes roamed over the cab. 'This is nice—shiny and clean like the outside.'"
The compliment could not have been better-timed, because it appealed to my human side, distracting me enough to stop gritting my teeth and calm down. I took pride in my Kenworth, having owned her from new, and I always kept her in peak condition.
"'Is your truck brand new?' she asked, running her hand along the polished wood dash."
"'No, she's nearly twenty years old.'"
"'Oh . . . my mistake. Well, someone has looked after her well.'"
"'Where're you headed?'"
"'North, I think.'"
I remember that answer sounded like the recent use of marijuana. I couldn't smell weed, but then her blood did consume all of my sensory input.
"'You don't have plans?'"
"'Where are you going?' she asked, bypassing my question."
"'Seattle.'"
"'Then we'll start with Seattle.'"
I put down the laptop and wondered how I could have ended the scene there. She really had emptied my memory, but it was filling again. Bella had told me her visits were not part of the cancer, and I never thought to believe her, but she was watching over me, preparing me for the memories coming to the surface. It was amazing how much she had locked away for fifty years.
On that first day when she sat in the cab alongside me, she began to sing, captivating me with her glorious voice. "Long As I Can See the Light" had only just been released, and if she liked my kind of music and would serenade me, I might agree to extend this one-time ride.
"You like Creedence?" I inquired.
"Very much."
"I only have the radio. No 8-track or cassette deck yet."
She kept singing through 'til the end, then stared at me. It had been so long since I'd spoken to someone who wasn't from a warehouse or timber mill, I'd managed to run out of conversation.
"Your name is Edward," she stated as if she already knew.
"How do you know that?"
She pointed, and I realized she had read my registration.
"I'm Bella."
Since I never swapped names with hitchhikers, I felt quite exposed. She was also a little more curious and observant than others I had picked up in the past.
She continued. "I know what you are."
The use of "what" made my edges prickle. It was like a memory of fear.
I stared at her, wanting her to reveal she meant something I hadn't considered. Eventually, her resolve collapsed and she spoke.
"I'm not scared of you."
Now I was certain she had no inkling that I was something other. If that were the case, she would have already jumped from the cab.
"You will have what you want if you give me your trust, Edward."
Each tiny morsel falling from her lips made her more fascinating. With the appeal of her mind overtaking the lust for her blood, I wanted to play along with this game for as long as I could.
"I don't trust easily." Never, in fact. The last time ended with an eternal thirst for blood.
"Give me a couple of days to persuade you."
Maybe I wouldn't play after all. Since I couldn't fight the urge to kill for more than a few hours, I never accepted a passenger for a long trip. It was better to have a finite amount of time I could control.
"I can take you as far as Seattle."
"You can take me as far as you want," she said with a smirk.
Had she just propositioned me? I knew it was all peace, love, and dope out there, but . . . had she?
"I know you've discovered the sun can't kill you."
I remained stock-still as if the road ahead required all my concentration.
"You also know that blood doesn't nourish you."
Once again, I did not react, fighting the impulse to ask how she knew and to beg her to answer the questions flooding my head. She was the only person I'd met in twenty years who had guessed the truth about me.
"The disease makes you want to drink blood, but it's only an addiction."
"Only an addiction?" I asked, shocked to my bones. "You make it sound like someone could recover one day."
"Not one day, Edward, but today, tomorrow, or the next day if you want."
"Today?" I laughed so loud it echoed around the cab, and when she joined me, I was truly happy for the few seconds it took to concede that I'd have to sacrifice her. After this, there was no way I could let her go.
"You won't hurt me."
Was she a mind reader? A witch? My own existence was proof that some of us were more human than others.
"You should be very scared, Bella. It's not safe for a young girl hitchhiking alone."
She looked at me smugly, as if she noticed I still hadn't let down my guard.
"We have a lot in common, you and I."
"Is there a reason everything has to sound like a riddle?"
She looked away for a second. "Maybe my use of your language is not so good."
Your language?
"I expect you will correct me."
"Me?"
I barely ever spoke and picked up everything from the radio.
"Yeah," she responded as normal as could be.
It was time I sought a few answers. I didn't like this confusion, and it was disconcerting not knowing who or what I had invited into my cab.
"What do we have in common?"
"We both live on the edge of the human world, and only enter briefly when we need to."
Now there was the riddle of all riddles. I could see how it might apply to me, but she was a human female with a strong pulse and tantalizingly delicious blood in her veins. Unlike me, she looked like she belonged, so what did she think was the edge of the human world?
I still had some pride, and I knew this next thing would sting. "I don't understand."
"I'm a transitioner. I help reluctant souls with their passage into the afterlife."
It was becoming clear her words were the rantings of the insane, but there was a positive side. Her having such a disability meant I'd never kill her. I read somewhere that you don't argue with a crazy person. It was easier for everyone if you just went along.
"That sounds amazing."
Just for a second, there was a tiny twitch of pride on her lips. "I only get called in if they resist leaving their human form."
I hardly knew what to ask next, but I'd come this far, and she certainly wasn't boring. "We don't look the same in the afterlife?"
"No, for some their earthly appearance defines them, and it takes a while to let go."
"So, what's left? How do you know who is there to greet you at the Pearly Gates?"
She smiled without a hint of ridicule. "There are no smiling faces or waving hands."
"Why not?" Out of everything I'd ever heard, I wanted to believe there would be someone familiar to stand by me when they handed out my retribution. While the thought of eternal flames terrified me, it was even worse if I'd been clinging to a myth.
"Because you don't need an exterior when you're just energy."
I let that sink in for a while before deciding to shift the conversation to something I could relate to.
"What happens to the evil ones—the bad guys like me? I am going to hell for what I've done."
"Listen to me, Edward, because this is important. Sin is a human trait that doesn't exist in the afterlife, and there's no such thing as hell."
I was amazed she was still producing these bizarre answers. She was good, because I was still in the game. "What about purgatory?"
"I have delivered souls into purgatory, but it's then up to others to transition them. The goal is to have them move on quickly."
"So, it does get crowded up there?"
"Up where?"
"I don't know. Don't souls float up in the sky?"
"No." She looked at me as if I was the one who was nuts. "It's not individuals vying for space. There is one made of many, and many made of one."
I never really understood the phrase "blew my mind" before, but my mind was officially blown. I didn't even want to sink my teeth into her, now, and that was new.
"You don't believe me, do you?" she asked indignantly.
We'd passed the point where I was obliged to go along with her insanity. She had been more entertaining than anyone I'd ever met, and in another life, she would have been exactly my type, but I'd have to hand her over to people who could take care of her. Olympia was coming up soon, and I'd find somewhere safe once we arrived.
"Pull over!" she called out as if we'd hit someone.
Now she was really testing my patience. "I can't just jam my foot on the brakes with the weight I'm hauling! There are other people sharing this road, and I have to find a place that won't leave my ass sticking out!"
"Okay." Mercifully, she sank back in her seat and kept quiet until we came to a stop.
I turned to her and asked, "What is it?"
She smirked, as if I had passed her test. "You don't believe a thing I've said."
So she was a mind reader—an annoying, crazy one. I kept my mouth shut so I didn't set her off again.
"Try to lay a hand on me."
"I beg your pardon?"
"I want to show you something."
"What?" Why did I have a feeling she was laying a trap?
"Just try to touch me."
Try? Was this another test? Was she aware one of the outcomes might be the loss of her head?
"Come on, Edward."
If she kept this going, I would eventually snap and regret her death for all eternity, so I leaned over, and was just about to connect, when an almighty force hurled me back in my seat. It was so strong I had to check I was still in one piece.
"Who are you?"
"I already told you. I just wanted to reassure you that you don't have to worry about hurting me."
It was humbling to have the tables turn for once, and I replied meekly before she could lash out again. "I see that now."
"Do you know what salvation is, Edward?"
The concept had tortured me for most of my life. "Deliverance from sin and the consequences of sin. Absolution."
Shrugging slightly, she said, "Salvation is deliverance from sin, but when sin does not follow you into the afterlife, there is no need to confess or be forgiven. Does that make sense?"
I couldn't conceive of a world where sin was inconsequential.
"I can offer you salvation."
Oh, if only. I wanted so much for this to be true.
"When you drink my blood, I will neutralize you."
"Neutralize?"
"You will go to sleep and wake up with no memory of ever being a vampire. It will be as if you never existed."
Sleep . . . I closed my eyes and remembered how it felt to give in. When I opened them again, she was looking at me strangely, as if she was appraising me, and I was mindful of the big obstacle in the way.
"The person who changed me could drink and then stop, but I'm not capable of stopping. If I bit you, it would result in your death."
She shook her head as if she hadn't listened to a word of warning, and suddenly, I was pinned to the seat again. "Do I need to remind you?"
Even though she had me completely subdued, it was strangely thrilling to know she had this absolute power over me, and for once, I could bask in her scent and beauty without visualizing carnage. As I felt her hold weaken, I had mixed feelings over her offer. Getting my life back was everything, but I wouldn't remember any of this, so I wouldn't remember her.
"Have I hurt you?" she asked, and I shook my head. "I didn't think you would be sad."
"I'm just . . . sorry that I won't remember you."
She touched my face with the back of her hand, just as my mother had once done. "I'll be with you when you wake up, and I'll stay for as long as you want."
If I didn't know it was impossible, I would have insisted I felt the beat of my heart. "You will?"
"Yes, I haven't explained that part yet. I'm going to be human, too. I get one lifetime as a bonus for consistent good work."
Just when I was beginning to believe, there was more to perplex me. Striving to keep up, I had to ask, "If you're not human now, what are you?"
"I took over the body of a young woman who was about to die, knowing you would find her attractive."
My mind was still processing "attractive" while the rest of her words rolled by slowly and muffled—something about it being sad that no one would come looking for her.
"You wanted me to find you attractive?" I asked with a long-forgotten urge stirring inside me.
She grinned and replied, "Yes, I already know I'm going to like you. I'm allowed a full, human life, so I'm anticipating lots of sex and babies and mistakes. I want to make all the mistakes."
At that moment, I could imagine it—all of it, and I laughed because she made me feel so . . . alive. "How long is this human lifetime?"
"I don't know, so we'd have to live each day as if it was our last. What do you think?"
I was filled with joy and hope for the first time in two decades. It felt like God had sent an angel to save me.
"I think I'm gonna fall in love."
Thanks for reading xo
This was my entry in the Thirst Contest. Thank you to the team who worked so hard to put the contest together and to the readers and reviewers.
Much love and thanks go to Ipsita for pre-reading and to Midnight Cougar who cast her magic over my words.
All the very best for the holidays. Please stay healthy and optimistic—vaccinations are coming, and we have a new year to celebrate!
Sweet Hitchhiker has been nominated in the poll to find TwiFanfictionRecs' Top 10 fics completed in December on www . twifanfictionrecs . com
There are many great fics to read over there.