A/N: Yay, fanfiction is working again!

For those who didn't already read this on fiction pad, lol:

Wow, so excited by the response to this story. I knew it would be a difficult first chapter. Many of you were shocked/disappointed/angry/bewildered/confused/saddened by the fact that Alice and Jasper have passed away here. I apologize, but we will see them in flashbacks, and I hope that you'll eventually be able to see both Alice and Jasper in their daughter, Melody.

And Edward…yeah, he's got a rough road ahead of him…This chapter is in his POV as well. Next chappy will be in Bella's POV.

So let's get on with it, shall we?

Betad by my girl, Michelle Renker Rhodes. :)

Most characters belong to S. Meyer (I think I forgot to say this last chapter, but I'm pretty sure you guys know this already, right?) ;)

Chapter 2 – Ain't Nobody Got Time

EPOV

I slam the nail gun down over the drywall a bit harder than necessary, earning a few chunks to the goggles for it.

"Then she tells me she's going to tell her monitors or teachers or whoever the hell that I only deal in fuck buddies. I mean, she's not even thirteen yet. How does she even know what a fuck buddy is?"

The sound of Emmett's hearty chuckles reverberates over the loud din of our tools.

"Man, thirteen nowadays is way different from thirteen when we were kids."

I mull that over silently, not enjoying that fact at all. Thirteen was when I had my first drink; my buddy Sam and I snuck a bottle of Jack out of his dad's liquor cabinet, and the rest, as they say, is a long and drunken history. If thirteen nowadays is way past that, then…I'm in fucking trouble.

"Besides," he continues, "ain't nothing wrong with a fuck buddy. Or two. Not that that's what you should tell Mel. But if you and Heidi got a good thing going, don't let Mel make you feel guilty about it."

"Pass me the caulk gun," I mutter.

We work together silently for the next few minutes.

"That shit with Heidi's been over for a few weeks now anyway," I say while wiping excess sealant with my fingers and then cleaning them off on my pants.

Emmett crouches in front of the bags of dry cement and tears one open before looking up at me. "What happened? Come on, Man, take a break." He jerks his chin to an overturned bucket next to him. "You've been working non-stop for a few hours already."

I remove my hard hat for a second and wipe my forehead with the inside of my forearm. It's hot as hell today. Working outdoors is a real bitch when you've got the sun glaring over your head and back all day. With a heavy breath, I take a seat on the bucket and spread my legs, unrolling the pack of smokes from my sleeve and offering one to Emmett before lighting up.

"She started acting all weird, you know, like we were more than just…"

"Fuck buddies?" Emmett finishes for me with a laugh.

I chuckle. "Yeah. I mean, she knew from the get that…" I shake my head, letting the menthol burn make its way down my throat and into my lungs. "And then she was trying to be all sugary sweet to Mel, and Mel can't stand her, gives her some serious evil eye every time we bump into each other in the hallway, rolls her eyes if she as much as takes a breath in her direction."

"Oh yeah, I've seen that kid's eye rolls. They're award-winning," he chuckles again.

"I'm telling you, if I had a dime for every time…" I inhale the smoke deeply. It's the only addiction I'm allowed now, and hell, I'm going to make the most of it. "Point is, I don't have time for all that shit, you know? Relationships and…bullshit." I scowl while Emmett snorts his agreement. "Between Mel and the meetings and this fucking job-"

"Hey, hey, hey."

"You know what I mean," I smirk. "Look, Em, you know I appreciate you giving me a chance here, right? Taking me on as part of your crew."

"Well, you were Jasper's brother…besides, I figured some of them skills had to have rubbed off on you. The rest you've earned, my man. You're a hard worker, just like he was."

I glare down at my worn boots, full of dirt and paint and cement, and grind the smoke stub into the ground with the tip of a boot.

"But yeah, you don't need that shit," Emmett agrees, standing to turn the cement mixer on. "'Specially not now. You take it easy. Everything will work itself out soon enough. It hasn't been that long. Mel'll be okay. You both will."

I nod silently and get up, picking up another bag of dry cement over my shoulder.

"Hey, hold on. Let me get the other end of that before you hurt yourself."

"I've got it."

Emmett snorts, and I turn the bag over the mixer, watching it spin around inside the shaft.

"It's six months today." I glare at cement, sand and water turning into thick concrete.

"Yeah. I know."

"Five months and twenty-nine days sober."

I feel him staring at me. "Good for you, Man."

OOOOOOOOOO

The meetings are held at the Knights of Columbus hall on Varick Street, across the street from the Smith Houses: old, dilapidated projects surrounded by warehouses on one end and brownstones on the other.

We start with the Serenity Prayer; we always start with the serenity prayer. Then we go around the room sharing how long it's been since our last drink, how we got to where we are, why we know we can never go back. What we've lost.

Because this is our version of a confessional, except when we confess our sins, there are no prayers that'll take those sins away – only the understanding of those as fucked up as we are. You know what it means when you confess your deepest, darkest secrets to others just as fucked up as you are? It means you're in some seriously deep shit.

Less than halfway through the meeting, my phone buzzes with a text.

Uncle Ed, I'm ready to get picked up.

Mel, I'm not even half way through the meeting. You said it ended later.

It ended ten minutes ago.

I'm not even half way through the meeting.

Well I'm ready to get picked up!

You're going to have to wait because I'm not even halfway through my meeting!

I groan lowly, while up at the podium, Jason Lewis explains how he lost his family.

"What's going on?" Carlisle whispers next to me.

"Mel's done with her class."

"I thought you said it ended later."

"That's what she told me, but now she says she's ready to get picked up."

Carlisle nods and looks straight ahead.

"You know you can't make a habit of leaving these meetings early – especially not today, Edward."

"I know. She can wait a few."

"Are you sure?"

I don't answer him because Jason Lewis is up in the front crying now, I'm talking about these wracking sobs that shake his entire body, and I think that at the very least he deserves the attention of those of us as fucked up as he is. But I feel Carlisle's eyes on me.

Five months and twenty-nine days.

That's nothing compared to his twenty years of sobriety. A drop in the bucket. It's why he's my sponsor, why I respect his judgment, why someday I hope to be able to go up there, to the front where Jason Lewis sobs on about his divorce and say, "I'm Edward Cullen, and I haven't had a drink in twenty years."

Only nineteen and a half more years to go.

OOOOOOOOOO

About a half hour later, while coffee is being passed around, I turn to Carlisle.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Man."

"Yeah." He hesitates. "You and Mel gonna be okay tonight?"

It's been six months. Six months since that wasted asshole got behind the wheel. Six months since his jacked up decision put him on the same road as my brother Jasper and his wife.

Shit-faced motherfucker.

Just like me.

"Yeah, we'll be fine."

OOOOOOOOOO

Hellooo? Where are you?

On my way.

Classes ended almost an hour ago!

Mel, you KNOW I have my meetings tonight. Now stop texting me, I'm driving.

I can keep texting you. You can choose not to read them while you're driving.

While I put the truck on park across the street from the dance school, I mentally steel myself for a fight. If Mel's class is gonna end at this time every night, then we have a problem. Carlisle's right; I can't leave these meetings early three nights a week. Five months and twenty-nine days sober ain't shit. That fucking bottle calls to me every single goddamn day; it's my first craving in the morning, my last thought at night.

The dance studio is on Smith Street, and that right there is another reason why I don't think this shit will work out. When I was a kid, Smith Street, just a few blocks from the Smith Houses, was a rundown strip full of abandoned buildings, cheap Chinese take-out or small, dirty bodegas on every other corner. Old men used to play Dominoes loudly over fold-up tables on the sidewalk while the young guys dealt drugs a few feet away. Jasper and I would ride our bikes around, taking it all in, ending up at the projects before circling back home. Then Mom would yell at us about staying away from 'that neighborhood' – as if our little run-down apartment under the Expressway was any better.

Anyway, at some point, Smith Street underwent its own version of a renaissance, I suppose, and now the entire strip is lined with boutiques, fancy little restaurants and bars. The cheap Chinese have been replaced by Sushi houses, the bodegas have been replaced with Organic Markets. And the drug dealers wear suits now.

Baila School of Dance is in the middle of the block. Instead of a big awning sign, they've got one of those fancy, old-fashioned wood signs that hang off a metal hook in a perpendicular angle. Now, I know for a fact those cost more to set up, which means that while it's a nice touch, it probably also makes this place pricey.

Climbing out of the truck, I swiftly walk towards the glass storefront, checking the time on my phone. The cemetery closes in a little over a half hour, so we've got to hustle if we're going to make it.

I stub out my cigarette with my boot and step into an empty, clean, large, white studio. Must be new. My mind automatically wanders to all the shit I can add to this blank slate. Walls and color and divisions. Half a dozen thirty-two inch screens line a long wall, but only one of them is on.

As I cross the room, I see a figure on the screen, in a fully-mirrored room, moving to some music I can vaguely hear through a closed door a few feet away. The figure spins and sways. Spins and sways.

Then she leaps.

And leaps again.

"Can I help you?"

I blink my eyes away from the screen. "Yeah, I'm looking for Melody?"

The woman behind the counter grins widely, one of those grins where the eyes rake you over from head to toe as the grin widens exponentially, and no attempt whatsoever is made to hide the fact that you're being blatantly eye-fucked. And then women talk shit about us men doing that. Anyway, this one twirls a strand of long, dark, curly hair around her finger and lifts her dark brows. I've got drywall, caulk, cement and God knows what else in my hair, under my fingernails, running up and down my forearms, and splattered on my work jeans, yet here she is sizing me up as a potential fuck buddy - as my thirteen year old niece would say.

"She's in Studio One," the woman smiles. "I'll get her for you."

Coming around from the back of the counter, she flashes me another grin, shaking her leotard covered ass a hell of a lot more than necessary while walking ten feet from behind a counter to a door.

Oh yeah, she's looking for a fuck buddy. But like I told Em, I don't have time for this. I smirk at her ass and let my eyes trail back up to the screen where the figure is still spinning and swaying and leaping across the room.

"Melody, mi amor, someone's here for you!"

She closes the door and walks back to the counter, flashing me yet another raunchy grin, her hips swinging from side to side. I repress a smirk directly at her, not because she's not hot, but it gets old.

"She'll be out in a sec."

I nod, anxiously checking the time again, tapping my foot. "Bit empty in here, isn't it?" I jerk my chin to the empty waiting area. Mel told me this was a popular place, but it sure as hell doesn't seem like it.

"That's because we've been closed for forty-five minutes, Papi."

"Oh shit." I rake a hand through my paint-filled hair. "Were you guys waiting for me? Sorry about that."

"It's alright. It was worth it waiting for you," she smiles coyly.

I snort at her boldness, but she just giggles.

"Anyway, she always stays after classes, doing her thing." She jerks her head up to the screen. "And I was taking care of some work."

Again, my eyes move up to the screen. The beat of the song seems to have picked up, and the figure's movements match the pace of the music.

"Who is she?"

"She owns the studio," she chuckles, as if I should somehow know this.

The figure on the screen spins and leaps so quickly that it starts to make me dizzy.

"And I suppose that's her doing her thing," I murmur.

"Oh yeah. That's definitely her doing her thang."

I'm not sure how much time has passed when the woman on the screen spins one final time, around and around and around…and then drops to one knee, her arms splayed out like a bird's wings, her back and neck arched up to the sky as if in worship. It's not until the music has ended that I realize that my heart has been thumping to the beat of the music.

"Hey, mi amor, you hear me?"

"Sorry, what?"

Her eyes flash from me to the screen and back. "I was introducing myself, Papi Chulo. I'm Angie."

"Oh."

"Hypnotized by that dancing, weren't you?"

"What? No."

"You dance?"

"Used to. A bit. With friends and shit." When I was wasted. "Nothing like that, though." I jerk my chin to the screen, but the dancer has moved out of the camera's range. "I guess she's good at her thing."

"You kidding me, Papito? She's great at it."

My eyes remain trained on the screen, kind of hoping the dancer moves back into the camera's range, but then I blink a few times and turn away.

"Good to meet you, Angie. I'm-"

The door to the room opens. Laughing and giggling precede Mel's appearance. Her cheeks are flushed with excitement, and she sports the type of grin I haven't seen on her since…well, in a while. She flashes a smirk though when she sees me.

"'Bout time."

"I told you I wouldn't be able to get here 'til later."

"Yeah, you weren't kidding when you said late-r. Jeez."

She rolls her blue eyes, and I reach out and tug on a bit of her hair before curling a hand around her shoulder, trying to usher her out quickly because we need to make it to the cemetery before it closes, and because as hot as Angie is, I'm not interviewing for a new fuck buddy, and because I'm hoping Mel got this out of her system and won't actually want to sign up. This place looks pricey as sh-

I hear a soft chuckle behind Mel.

When I look up, I'm met by a pair of the darkest eyes I've ever seen.

They're framed in a light, caramel face, the color of honey. It's the girl on the screen, though life-sized now. Her cheeks are red from exertion, dark hair up in a bun, but a few tendrils lie loose from the spinning and jumping.

My eyes lock on the dancer. I'm still trying to pull Melody out of here, but my eyes are on the dancer.

Mel stands her ground, refusing to budge. "Wait. Aren't you going to sign me up?"

With a quick blink, I break the off-balancing hold the dancer's eyes have on me and look at my niece.

"Mel, we're going to be late." I grab her hand and try to pull her along, but the kid won't give me an inch. Instead, she plays tug-of-war with both my hands, and while under normal circumstances, I'd just heave her over my shoulder, I don't think this new 'woman' Mel's become overnight would appreciate that.

"Please! They can do it quickly! Can't you, Miss Bella?"

The dancer's smile widens. It's a nice smile; a real pretty smile actually, set in a really pretty face; some might even say beautiful, if you were looking for that kind of thing.

"Sure. If your Dad wants to sign you up, we can get it done pretty quickly."

"Oh my God, he's not my Dad!" Mel shrieks as if the dancer just suggested she's the spawn of Satan.

It's my turn to roll my eyes, and I guess I do a pretty vicious job of it because when they land on the dancer once more, I feel off-balance all over again, like she's still spinning and swaying and making me as woozy as a triple-shot of vodka straight up.

"I'm her Uncle," I clarify, trying to blink away the lightheadedness and turning a smirk towards Mel. "You're a pain in the ass, you know that?"

Rather than a smart-mouthed retort, this makes her giggle, again in a way she hasn't in a while.

Trying to ignore the way my head keeps spinning like I'm in the middle of a bender, I force my eyes back up to the dancer.

"Can we get this done quickly? Mel and I have someplace to be."

She raises her brows - pretty brows with nice arches - and yeah, I get the irony of my being almost an hour late to pick up Mel, yet now rushing her. But I feel like if I don't get out of here soon, I'm gonna throw up as bad as I did that time Sam bet me I couldn't finish every bottle in his dad's cabinet in under an hour.

"Sure, let me just get you the forms."

When she moves from behind Mel, I catch a glimpse of one of those black, exercise bras under the loose half-top she's wearing. They seem to be supporting a pair of perfectly round breasts. The short shirt exposes firm stomach muscles and a whole lotta smooth skin. She continues past me towards the counter and my eyes follow the tiny waist framed by a scrap of see-through material I assume is supposed to be a skirt, but it's about as thin as air and does nothing to cover up the plump ass cheeks that stick out from the bottom of her black panties – or whatever the hell those things are called. Long, strong legs complete the picture, and fucking hell if the entire package isn't the most perfect body I've seen in a while – or ever.

But I don't have time for this. Not for any of it, so when she steps behind the counter, I blink and force my gaze away because I need to get the fuck out of here.

Apparently though, I'm not fast enough because when I look up, Angie is staring at me with a knowing smirk plastered across her bright red lipstick-stained mouth.

"Angie, pass me one of those registration packets, please," the dancer says, and Angie passes her a few forms, still smirking knowingly at me.

"Well, I guess there's no point in my sticking around here now," Angie sighs. "Bella, mi amor, do you need help closing up?" She leans in and whispers something inaudible in the dancer's ear, which makes her first roll her eyes and then push her away. Angie giggles loudly.

"Goodbye, Angie," the dancer drones in a phony tone of exasperation, organizing what I assume is the registration packet in her hands.

Angie looks at me one more time. "Take care, Papi. It was good to meet you, anyway. And Mel's a great kid by the way."

"Good to meet you too."

"Oh, I know it is," she giggles, and then struts off, sticking headphones in her ears and singing along to some Spanish song. Still shaking that ass.

When she leaves, the dancer turns back to me, and I make my way to the counter.

"Don't mind, Angie. She's full of shit." She mouths the last word, smiling and flashing her eyes towards Mel, even though Mel's already got a set of headphones in her ears.

I chuckle, shoving a hand through my hair. "Yeah, I could sort of tell."

This makes her laugh. It's a great laugh. Full of life and energy and….

"She's good people though. And she was right about your niece, Mel's really funny."

"I don't even want to know what she's been saying."

"You probably don't," she agrees with an impish smile. "Are you…her legal guardian?"

"Yes," I say, steeling myself for the barrage of invasive questions that usually accompany that inquiry.

"Oh, okay. I just need to know for registration purposes." She pushes a couple of pieces of paper across the counter. "Now if you'll fill out these forms, I'll input the info into our system and have you out of here as quickly as possible."

I'm startled by her lack of inquiries, but I hold my hands out, palms up where paint and cement stain the tips of my fingers and the callused skin on my knuckles.

"I apologize in advance if I get some of this on them."

Her eyes sweep over my hands, move up to my hair, trail all the way down my face, my chest and arms. I feel a strange burn, sort of like the burn from a fifth of whiskey, wherever her eyes roam.

"No problem. My dad's in construction. I'm used to paint and spackle and plaster everywhere."

The impish smile turns into a grin, eyes sparkling and damn if she isn't just fucking gorgeous. She's the kind of gorgeous I vaguely remember finding women when I was three sheets to the wind, but I haven't had a drink in five months and twenty-nine days. She's got perfect, white teeth that stand out against her honey-toned skin, hair almost as dark as Alice's used to be. It's like fighting some god damn force just to tear my eyes away long enough to pick up a pen from the jar on the counter.

There are a couple of forms, so I take the one from the bottom and another pen and turn around to Mel, who's standing behind me with her headphones on full blast, hands tucked deep in the kangaroo-pocket of her hoodie, and pull the ear buds out.

"Here, Pain-in-the-Ass, this was your idea. Help me out with this form so we can be done quicker." Cuz your Uncle's about to lose his shit over your new dance teacher, I add mentally.

The eye rolls are back, but Mel takes the form from me and walks a few feet away to the waiting area, dropping over a chair. She sticks the headphones back in her ears and begins to fill out the paper.

When I turn back around, the dancer is watching me. She opens her pretty mouth to say something, but then closes it back up. Then she opens it again.

"Let me know if you have any questions while filling those out," she says before turning around behind the counter.

I start out on my form, too damn aware of the dancer's every movement behind the counter. She picks something up and puts it away on the other side of the counter, taps something out on the keyboard, fidgets and straightens out some papers.

My eyes trail back up to her.

She's staring straight at me.

When she realizes she's been caught – again - her honey cheeks flush the most exotic shade.

"I'm Miss Bella, by the way. I'll be Melody's dance instructor."

I set the pen down; registration, cemetery, self-imposed restrictions all but forgotten.

"I thought Mel said she was going to take hip-hop classes."

Her dark eyes are piercing. The recessed lights shining above make them sparkle and dance as wickedly as her body was just doing so.

"She is," she smiles.

I lean my weight sideways across the counter. "Now I'll admit I'm no expert," I grin, "but that sure as hell wasn't hip hop you were just dancing."

She chuckles and looks down before meeting my gaze again, long, curved eyelashes fluttering. "You saw that?"

"I did," I nod slowly.

"That was just your niece and me playing around. I dance lots of different disciplines."

"You're good."

"Thanks," she snorts, "but I thought you just said you're no expert." Her mouth stretches into a wry grin while her hand goes to her hip. A nice, curvy hip. "How would you know if I was any good?"

"I suppose I don't," I chuckle. "I guess what I meant to say was that you looked really good."

Another blush; a fuck-all beautiful blush.

"Thanks." She laughs and looks down again, and I pray to God she'll look up at me with those dark eyes once more.

She does.

"I'm Edward, by the way. Edward Cullen."

"It's good to meet you, Mr. Cullen." She stretches a hand out to shake mine. Smooth, feminine hand. Pretty, red-manicured nails, not too long, but not short. I can already feel them on my back; across the ink…

"You probably shouldn't shake my hand," I warn her, turning my hands from side to side in front of her to show her the dirt and stains; to give her a chance to get out of it, to back up.

She smirks, but doesn't back up.

Instead, her lithe, dancer's body moves forward, leans into the counter and I smell her scent; soft perfume and clean body and holy hell, it's the most intoxicating scent I've ever inhaled – which is some crazy shit coming from me.

She wraps her palm around mine, and then turns our hands sideways into a proper handshake, holding on firmly. She's soft and warm and her hand fits just inside.

"That's alright. Hard work never scared me."

"In that case, it's great to meet you, Miss Bella."

"Bella. You can just call me Bella. Only my students call me Miss Bella," she chuckles.

"Alright. And you can call me Edward."

"Alright, Edward."

We stare at each other silently, and she chuckles again, and I know I should be dropping her hand because I need it to finish with this form, and I don't have time for this. Not to fill out these papers when I should be at a cemetery, not for the coy convo that seems to be going on here. I've got no time for any of it.

Yet I can't seem to let go of her hand.

A/N: Thoughts?

TRANSLATIONS:

Mi amor - my love

Papi Chulo - hot daddy

We'll have our first BPOV next…:)

Most of the country is in a deep freeze this morning. Stay warm guys. Talk to you Thursday!

Twitter: PattyRosa817

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