AN: Thank you to my ladies on the BW crew. I could not do it without them. I always tinker after they look at it, so any mistakes remaining are mine.
Thanks to all of you for reading, and I am loving your Edward theories.
~~o~~
Chapter 4. The Broken Stranger
Despite my better judgement, I remain at the bar, my eyes on the defeated man across from me. Edward, as the girl called him. He asks for more tequila, but Seth refuses him, saying he's got orders to cut him off.
After a few expletives, Edward's up on wobbly legs, bumping along his way and out to the beach.
I don't know what the hell I am thinking, but I'm up on my feet as well, leaving some cash on the bar for Seth, and trailing after the broken stranger.
Not even Rose would approve of this—following a clearly intoxicated man into the dark hours of the night.
In a foreign country. By myself.
I can almost see Prof. McCarty simmering in disapproval and disappointment.
I honestly don't know why I am following him as he sways with each step, his feet sinking in the sand. Part of me wants to get to know him. Wants to acknowledge and follow the unexpected yet strangely comforting pull he has on me. But a bigger part of me just wants to make sure he is okay. And it doesn't look like he is.
He stops a few yards from the water, still on dry sand.
The sound of the waves muffles everything behind me, and I can no longer hear the people or the music from the bar.
He sways in front me, looking down, reaching for his shirt until he pulls it off his shoulders and discards it on the sand.
The moonlight shines on his back and his muscles ripple with deep breaths as if in preparation, while my chest tightens and something foreign flutters in my stomach.
That's a damn fine back.
I stare at him until what he's doing becomes obvious to me.
He takes slow but purposeful steps into the ocean; the water looks dark and angry. Dangerous.
"Hey!" My voice comes out shaky with fear.
He turns to me, startled, his eyes widening as I walk closer to him, stopping right before the water.
With his eyes on me, I realize I have no idea what I should say to him, or why should I question his desire to go swimming at this hour.
"Isn't it dangerous to swim in the dark?" I ask him instead, my voice shaky.
He laughs humorlessly, shaking his head. "What's dangerous is you being out here by yourself," he says with a slight slur to his voice.
"I'm not… by myself." I wave a hand in his direction, trying to be clever, but he shakes his head.
"Yes you are. You should go back." He turns away from me and continues his steps into the water, now seemingly in a rush. I watch him dive under one, then another breaking wave, until I can't see him anymore.
I'm craning my neck, my eyes straining, trying to find him. I think I see him a few times. A splash here. A kick there. It looks as if he's riding waves without a board, letting his body be taken with the force of the angry water, and then going back in.
When I don't see him at all, I wait a moment, considering running back to the bar to find help. But then he comes out, panting, with his hair stuck to his forehead.
He drops on all fours next to me then rolls over to his back, getting sand all over himself. His chest heaving profusely.
"Are you okay?" I lower myself to a crouch next to him and his shirt and he laughs again. His hand clutches the pendant of his necklace.
"Why are you still here, Haze?" He slurs without looking at me.
"Haze? My name is Be—"
"If they come to get you, I won't be able to protect you."
"What?" I take a step back, alarm bells ringing in my head. "Who's going to come get me?"
"Sex traffickers? I don't fucking know." He scoffs, his eyes fluttering closed.
"Are you just saying that to scare me?"
He groans louder now, flipping his body over and standing up, stumbling back a couple steps.
"Don't follow me." He warns with a finger, leaving again.
Okay, I'm done. Done trying to help him out or get to know him or figure him out or whatever. It's clear he wants absolutely nothing to do with me.
I sigh, palming my forehead and pushing my bangs off my face as I watch him wobble his way toward the rock wall at the end of the beach.
His earlier words about sex traffickers left me on edge, so I look over my shoulder, making sure no one is actually coming for me.
Of course no one is.
This is a safe beach.
I'm about to leave when my gaze drops to my feet and there, I see it.
His shirt.
And for the second time tonight, I'm following him.
He has already reached the rocks and is climbing them, when I catch up with him.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" He's bent over at the waist, a hand on his knee, as he looks down at me from the rocks.
"Okay, you asshole, you dropped your shirt, I just—" Then I just growl, crumple his stupid shirt in my hand, and throw it at him. "You're welcome by the way."
The shirt falls at his feet, and when he lifts his eyes, he seems surprised to see me there, startled even at my outburst.
His hand lifts from his knee, and I can see it's covered in blood. I realize then his colorful greeting might've been because he hurt himself and not because he's annoyed with me.
"Shit…" He grabs his shirt from the ground and wipes his hand on it, but when he lifts up his head, he stumbles back, and if it wasn't for his hand, grabbing onto a tree root exposed under the rocks, he would have fallen down.
My hands instinctively reach for his back, my feet making the way up the rocks, and I push him up to get him vertical again.
"Thanks..." His eyes are almost in slits, and his speech gets more slurred by the minute.
"Where are you even going?"
He points his finger up, all the way up to the top of the hill, and a definite smile stretches on his face.
His faltering next step decides it for me, and I'm climbing the rocks next to him, a hand around his arm.
Luckily, there's a path along the rocks, not really a trail, but sections that look as if someone climbs on them frequently.
Without further mishaps, we make it all the way to the top.
At the top of the hill, there's a large flat rock, sticking out, a steep cliff underneath it. Parked next to the rock, a vintage camper van.
He suddenly moves with purpose as he walks toward the van, and with one hand on the side, bends his body over behind it.
I cringe at the sounds of him being sick behind the van, but I'm glad he held off until I wasn't holding him anymore to puke. I'm not queasy or anything, but I still feel it was a nice gesture… considering.
He circles the van, reaching for a small tank on the roof of it, and unhooks a small hose, from which water starts coming out in a low pressure stream.
He runs water over his face, his hair, and his still sand-covered body, not even flinching as he points the water to his knee.
When he drops his shorts, I turn around quickly, covering my eyes.
Peeking through my fingers, I see him reach for a towel that's hanging off the side of the van. Next to it, dry trunks, which he grabs right after.
He looks at me and sighs. As if he had forgotten I was there.
I'm glad it's dark so he can't see my blush. My cheeks feel like they are on fire, from the peek I got at his mighty naked body.
From behind the front right wheel, just inside the fender, he retrieves a set of keys.
After dipping his feet in a bucket by the door of the van, he steps on to the doormat, meticulously completing a routine that it seems like he has practiced many times—both sober and not.
I smile at the fact that even in his state, he's careful not to bring sand inside his van.
It's obvious that now that I've helped him climb the hill he doesn't seem to need further assistance. If I were to turn around and leave now, I think he'll probably be okay on his own. But the pull is still there, and I can't make myself turn around and walk away.
He unlocks the door and walks right in without looking at me, bending over his body so his head doesn't hit the roof on the inside.
Even though he leaves the door open, I am not sure if my presence would be welcome—given his mood—so I remain outside, looking over the cliff and the rocks we just climbed. In the dark, it looks steeper, perilous, way scarier on the way down. Knowing my lack of coordination, the rocks and the exposed roots would certainly lead to a nasty fall.
I can see the beach beneath us, and the lights of the bar. It looks farther than I thought it would.
A shudder runs through me, partly in fear, partly just cold as the breeze hits my skin exposed in my scanty dress.
I am not quite ready to brave the trek down the hill by myself in the dark, so I take a seat on the flat rock by his van, going over in my head all the choices that led me here—sitting outside a strangely beautiful yet broken man's van, in the middle of the night, in a foreign country, regretting each and every move since I struck up that conversation with him at the bar.
It looks like I took the new bold Bella a bit too far, too soon.
What the fuck do I do now?
~~o~~
AN: o.O what should Bella do? Mel has already given permission to post the next one this week, so sea you soon!
Speaking of Mel, she has a new WIP that you should totally check out it's called Not Time and it's on her profile (Mcc101180). Go and read and leave her some love!