A/N: Disclaimer. I own nothing but the plot.

This is a rewrite I've been working on for a while. It flows better. I'll be continuing to rewrite the rest of the chapters and uploading them as I can, and hopefully, finally, a decade after I started this damn story, I can finish it and get it out of my head.

Bella

Bella Swan sat outside the airport sweating and trying to breathe in the oppressive heat. The hot leather seats of her prized possession - a 1971 Chevy Nova, bought for her by a dear friend - sticking to the bare skin of her thighs. The feeling of being back behind the wheel again was indescribable, but sometimes she hated the goddamned Los Angeles heat.

The car purred beneath Bella's hands as she gave the accelerator the slightest touch of her booted foot, the sounds of the car's engine rumbling beneath her brought a smile to her weary face, despite the mood the stuffy weather brought about.

"I've missed ya, Betty," Bella cooed to the car she loved so much, almost giddy in her longing to be back behind the wheel. With a shift of her hand and a stroke of the wheel, the car roared to life, bucking slightly under her thighs, as she pulled out of the airport parking lot. Within seconds, Bella and her Betty were flying down the streets of L.A., headed, finally, for home.

Less than an hour later, Bella pulled into the driveway of her modest home, and mentally thanked the beautiful man who had bought it for her - another dear friend - who had told her, upon presenting her with the keys to the tiny house, that as long as there was room for him in her bed when he was in town, he was happy to make sure she always had a cozy place to lay her head at night.

Bella got out and ran her fingers across the sleek body of the deep green car as she made her way up the walkway to the front door, "Man, it's good to be home," she whispered to herself, before remembering her bags were still in the trunk and turning around to retrieve them. Struggling up the walkway, arms loaded with overstuffed baggage, she paused and groaned at the sight of a small piece of paper taped to her front door. Bella knew of only one person in the world whose hastily scrawled chicken scratch would be affixed to her door on her first day home in months: Emmett.

Emmett was a friend and a bouncer at the Witching Hour, a well-known club on the Strip that featured live bands. It was also the place where Bella had met many of her 'dear friends.' Emmett was in the habit of tracking Bella down whenever she was home, and persuading her - often against her better judgement - to check out whatever lowlife band was playing at the club that night.

"Know you're home tonight, bitch," the note pinned to Bella's door read. "8 p.m. Your ass better be there. -E"

How the fuck does he always know when I'm coming home? Bella growled to herself and ripped the note from the door. She stepped inside the house, deposited her bags on the floor, kicked off her boots and made her way into the kitchen to throw the note into the trash. Bella was happy to see that Sable hadn't changed much while she had been house-sitting. The rectangular, dark oak table still stood in the middle of the kitchen; the black and white checkerboard floor still hadn't been washed in ages; the fridge, Bella noted, was still filled with beer, and the black kitchen cabinets that ran along one wall still held all of Bella's favorite things: opened and unopened bottles of whiskey, packages of cookies, and a bag of every flavor of chip found in the grocery store. Bella was also thankful to see that Sable hadn't managed to find the small orange vial of cocaine that she had hidden in a box of tea bags, knowing that Sable would never in her life make herself a cup of tea.

The prospect of spending her first night home at the Witching Hour, watching some crappy garage band screech their way through a 30-minute set made Bella sigh and roll her eyes, but despite the fact that she would much rather relax on the couch with a cold beer and Jake, her cat, she checked her watch and jumped in the shower. Emmett knew she would come, even if she didn't want to, because Bella never could pass up a show, or a musician for that matter.

Once she had sufficiently rid herself of the airplane smell that had clung to her body, Bella got out of the shower, wrapped a fluffy towel around herself, and returned to the kitchen to get that orange vial from the box of tea. Opening the fridge, she grabbed herself a cold bottle of beer, closed the door, and reached on top of the freezer to grab the flat piece of mirror that was always on top of the fridge, as well as the razor blade beside it. Bella placed it all on the kitchen table, and sat down to chop herself a couple of lines before getting ready for the night.

Leaning over the small mirror, Bella placed a rolled up bill between her fingers and then snorted back the two freshly cut lines in quick succession. Tipping her head backwards, she sniffed roughly three times and took a swig of her beer before pushing her chair out, standing, and making her way into the bedroom to get ready for the night.

She stood at the small vanity table that stood against the wall of her bedroom closest to the door, and stared longingly at the poster of David Bowie's Aladdin Sane album pinned above the mirror. Bella lit the two candles that sat on either end of a shelf below the poster - creating a sort of shrine to Bowie - placed a kiss on her fingers and transferred it to the pouty lips of Aladdin Sane, and sat down to do her makeup.

Once she had finished the thick, black wings of her eyeliner, and the grey shadow she sported gave her the perfect smokey eye, she painted her lips a deep shade of ruby red, and stood up, dropping her towel, and crossing the room to her closet. A flurry of clothes came flying from inside the closet, landing on the bed, the floor, the light fixture hanging from the ceiling. Eventually, Bella walked out in a variation of her usual outfit: a tight-fitting, low-cut purple shirt, to match the purple streaks in her hair; a black leather mini skirt so tight it could have been painted on; black fishnets, and a studded leather belt, slung low on her hips. She pinned her hair up haphazardly, and crossed the room once more to give herself a final look in the mirror.

Perfect.

Bella blew herself a kiss in the mirror, grabbed her bag from the back of a chair in the kitchen, and sat down on the couch to put on her 18-hole Doc Marten boots. A quick glance at the clock beside the fridge told her that it was nearing 8 p.m., so she got up, threw her beat up leather jacket around her shoulders, and left the house. Revving Betty's engine, she peeled out of her driveway, and headed towards the Witching Hour.

Bella parked her car on a small, nondescript side street, pulled a small orange vial from her bra, and tapped a line out on the dashboard. After a swig from the flask of Jameson that always sat in her glove compartment, she was ready to head to the club. As she walked up Sunset, Bella saw that a long line had already begun to form outside of the Witching Hour. She strolled past the line, and straight up to the door, where a burly, sandy-haired refrigerator of a man was ticking names off a list, and letting people slowly into the club. She rolled her eyes at the people who began murmuring their discontent at the fact that she forewent the long line while they waited, and inspected her fingernails. Before she knew what was happening, Bella was scooped out of the air and nearly squashed to death as the large man held her in a crushing bear hug.

"I knew you'd come, Bells!" Emmett said as he held her to his chest, her feet dangling above the ground, "It's good to see you again."

"Hey, Emmett," Bella managed to squeak out while struggling to be released from his grasp. She gave up and wrapped her arms around his ridiculously thick neck. "Didja miss me, baby?" She cooed into his ear and placed a soft kiss on his cheek. Emmett finally released her, a big, goofy grin spreading across his face.

"I always miss you, Bells. Wait 'til you see what I've got for you tonight."

"They better be good, Emmett. The last three times you've told me that you found some amazing band I just had to check out, they sucked. Royally."

"Not this time, baby!" Emmett grinned. "Maybe you'll be so happy with me, that you'll finally give me a chance," he laughed.

"Pick up an instrument, get signed with a million dollar label, E, and then maybe you'll have a chance," Bella leaned up on her toes to kiss Emmett on the cheek once more, and headed into the club, flipping the bird at the growing line of people waiting to be let in who collectively swore at her for not having to wait in line, as she walked through the door.

Sleep with a few rock stars, you pathetic fucks, Bella chided them in her mind, and then maybe you'll get some special treatment too.

Walking into a packed club had always felt like home to Bella, and tonight was no different. The enticing smell of beer, booze, and sweat had the same comforting effect on her as a home-cooked meal had on normal people. It wasn't just the atmosphere of the club that caused her to unconsciously bite her lip in expectation, it was also what was to be found in clubs like these: musicians.

You see, everyone has their thing. Some people like sweet, normal, vanilla sex; some like it hot; some like shy girls, or loud girls, country girls, or punk girls, sexy vamps dressed in leather and spikes, or meek lolitas wearing lace and and pigtails.

Bella Swan's thing was musicians.

Well, musicians and money.

Ok, musicians, money, and fame. But no one ever dared to say those last two things to Bella's face.

Bella made her way through the packed club and over to the bar, but there wasn't an empty seat in the house. The only time she remembered ever seeing the Witching Hour so packed was when her good-for-nothing ex-boyfriend James played there. But that was just because he could charm the pants off of anybody - including Bella herself, and she wasn't one who normally gave in to the charms of barroom musicians.

Her eyes dragged slowly across the bar, looking for an empty seat, but there was none to be found.

No matter. I'm Isabella Swan.

Bella found a tall, lithe, familiar-looking blonde girl sitting alone at the bar and made her way over to her. Without even looking in her direction, Bella shot out her hip and clipped the blonde in the thigh. Before she even knew what had happened, the poor girl was on the floor.

"Bitch what the fu-" the blonde's voice caught in her throat when she glanced up to see who'd had the nerve, and an apologetic look dawned across her pretty face. "Oh, Bella… I'm so sorry, I-uh, I didn't mean to call you-"

That's right. Squirm little girl.

"Jessica, is it?" Bella asked politely, holding out her hand to help the other girl up while fighting the smirk that fought to spread across her face.

"Yeah, Jessica! That's right!" She said, jumping to her feet and smiling as if she was talking to the Dalai Lama.

Bella flashed her most sincere fake smile and offered Jessica a drink when the bartender stopped and handed her two shots of Jameson.

"Thanks, Mike," Bella smiled to the bartender and held up one of the shot glasses in cheers.

"So…" Jessica started in an overly animated tone. Bella immediately regretted being nice to her. "Are you here to see the Bloodsuckers?"

Jesus fuck this chick is annoying, Bella scowled to herself as Jessica droned on and on about how amazing the band playing that night was, and simpering in adoration every time she brought up the lead singer, Jasper Whitlock. She had half a mind to pull out the brass knuckles tucked neatly away in her jacket pocket and break the girl's teeth, if only to stop the mindless chatter, but thought better of it and instead ordered a beer and another shot of whiskey. She waved her hand dismissively at Jessica just as the lights in the bar dimmed.

Bella turned on her stool to face the stage, leaning back against the bar, and rolled her eyes instinctively at the sight of the typical group of wannabe "band-aids," as they liked to call themselves, pushing against one another to be the one closest to the stage. These girls were at every bar show, showing as much skin as possible without being cited for indecent exposure, and sporting more makeup than Tammy Faye Baker, hoping to catch the eye of an up-and-coming musician. They weren't renowned enough to make it into the big concerts to bed the rock stars, so their raison d'etre was to sleep with as many bar rats as possible in the hopes that one of them would make it big one day, and they could shout from the rooftops that they had had that famous guy's dick in their mouth once.

The Bitch Pit, as Bella called them, began screaming and clapping, and she scoffed to herself.

I wonder how long it takes for one of them to throw their panties onto the stage. 6.9 seconds is my guess.

Annoyed that she'd been duped by Emmett to attend the show of another talentless garageband, Bella began to turn back towards the bar. She was stopped mid-turn, however, when he stepped out onto the stage. All leather, and cowboy, and blue eyes, and wagging cocaine jaw, the lead singer, Jasper, Jessica had called him, moved to center stage, and Bella's body unconsciously leaned forward, urging to get closer to him. But then her conscious mind caught up to her raging hormones, and she straightened up and pulled her semi-mussed jacket back into place.

Ew. Bar rat, Bella. Get a fucking grip.

The rest of the band filed on stage and a small, blue-haired pixie-minus-the-wings began picking softly at some bass licks. This caught Bella's attention, and she crooked her eyebrow slightly. Nothing made the musicophile inside her jump up and down more than a song that kicked off with a bass-line.

Her chest tightened as the cowboy let out a long, whining, raging wail. At the sound of it, Bella's hands slid down to the seat of the bar stool, and gripped tight to the edges. The band jumped in at the close of his wail and hard, fast music filled the packed bar. It reverberated off the walls and the sea of people watching this man sing, and jump, and writhe, and sing. He bounded from one side of the stage to the other, forcing the masses to follow his every move, heads moving left and right, back and forth, like a crowd at a tennis match.

A snort escaped Bella's lips at the thought, when from somewhere within the horde, a pair of light pink panties landed on the stage directly in front of Cowboy.

10-1 says they're Jessica's.

A brief surge of jealousy flashed through Bella, before her inner monologue chided her for it.

Ew, Bella! He plays at the Witching Hour!

James played at the Witching Hour.

James was special. He doesn't count.

Of course he doesn't.

She continued to watch the cowboy writhing across the stage, and before she knew what was happening, Bella had slipped off her stool, and sauntered languidly closer to the stage, and stood at the outer edge of the left side. She looked up at the singer who seemed to unconsciously hold some power over her body that she was not capable of withstanding, and he met her gaze. His striking blue eyes seemed to bore into her soul. Bella's breath caught in her throat as he moved closer to her side of the stage, singing at her, to her, his eyes never leaving hers.

Seems Cowboy has noticed me too.

She fought with every ounce of strength she had to break the stare and tear herself away from this mysterious cowboy, but she couldn't do it. During a quick musical break, he bent down by her side of the stage, rocking on the balls of his feet, and reached his hand out for her. She stared at it like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car.

Get your shit together, Isabella. What the fuck is wrong with you?

Part of her fought to keep her hand at her side and run away with her proverbial tail between her legs. The other part fought to give him her hand. To feel his skin on hers. Would it be soft? Rough? Would it taste sweet? Indecent images flooded through her brain, and the latter half of Bella won the struggle. She slipped her hand into his.

Fucking hormones.

The cowboy slid his thumb softly across the back of her hand, before bringing it slowly to his lips, eyes still locked with hers, and placed a soft, hot kiss where his thumb had just been. He lowered her hand and graced her with the sexiest, cockiest, most self-assured smirk she'd ever seen.

I want!

Bella's insides screamed like a child in a candy store.

Iwantiwantiwant!

Down girl! Jesus!

She flashed him back her most seductive keep-dreaming-kid-cause-it-ain't-gonna-happen grin, slid her hand into the pocket of her leather jacket and walked slowly, hips shaking, back to the bar, head held high. There was no way she was going to let some silly little bar rat get to her like this. She did, after all, have a reputation to uphold.

She hopped back onto her stool and turned toward the bartender, Mike. Without a word, he set Bella up with another two shots of whiskey, and slid a beer down the bar to her. She nodded in thanks, heaved a deep sigh, and flipped one of the shots down her burning throat. It did nothing to quench her thirst.

For the rest of the set, Bella stared straight ahead, back to the stage, but she could feel the cowboy's eyes on her. She knew he was staring, knew he would come over and try to talk to her, and she needed to figure out what she was going to do.