DISCLAIMER: All publicly recognizable characters, settings,

etc. are the intellectual property to the respective author.

The original characters and plot are the property of

Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement is intended.

-Chapter One-

I'd seen this done once or twice in my life, mostly in movies, but I didn't think it would be that difficult. You take a hanger and slide it between the door and the window, and after a minute of jiggling it a bit, the door is supposed to unlock.

No such luck.

The lock wasn't budging, and this shit was pointless. I wasn't a car thief. I wasn't even eighteen. No, I was a runaway who was in way over her head.

I needed money.

I needed a place to sleep.

I needed food.

I needed a lot come to think of it.

Sadly, those basic survival needs were met not too long ago. But then, they weren't even a thought; they were just there because I had a home once.

Not anymore, and I couldn't go back.

Renee didn't care that I was gone. All she wanted was Phil—her sack-of-shit husband who tried to fondle his stepdaughter.

No such luck.

I cursed, the metal wire slipping from my hand and jamming into my palm.

I glanced around in a panic, assuming someone had caught me. Wouldn't that be perfect?

Two minutes into the car-jacking business and I get pinched.

But the streets remained quiet, and no one was around. The coast was clear for now, but for how long?

Refocusing my attention on the task at hand, I jimmied that hanger deeper into the slit, forcefully and desperately, trying to get this damn car unlocked.

Then there was a click. It was faint, but I heard it. I held my breath and lowered my hand, slowly lifting the door handle.

It opened.

I was in the car.

"Fuck yeah," I said, slithering into the driver's seat. I pulled down the driver-side visor, hoping that the keys would fall into my lap, but once again, movies lied.

Accepting that I would have to do this the hard way, I reached into my back pocket and pulled out my screwdriver.

I wedged it in the crack of the steering wheel and pried the plastic away, exposing the wires. My brows furrowed as I tried to remember how to proceed from there.

Damn, why did I tell Jake I could do this?

It was such a blatant lie. You could look at me and know that I was full of shit. I had grit, though. I guess that was important. I didn't take shit from anyone, and I was willing to put up a fight.

Huffing and puffing, I fingered the blue and red wires, trying to figure out what to do with them while plotting my next move if this shit went south. That was when I heard the click—no, not a click, but a cocking. It was a cocking of a gun, two inches away from my left ear.

I froze.

"Who in the fuck are you—and why in the fuck are you trying to steal my car?"

Yup, this was it. This moment was how I was going to die.

I closed my eyes, bracing myself for the bullet. "I wasn't stealing it."

"The fuck you weren't," he replied, pressing the muzzle of his gun to my forehead. "Did that asshole Jake send you?"

I nodded once and waited for the pop. But there was nothing, just silence.

"Did you cross him?" he asked, easing the pressure from my temple.

"Cross him? What?" That question threw me, and without thought, I turned my head toward the unknown man.

There were many things you expect when you look into the eyes of your killer: normalcy wasn't one, and two, you don't expect them to be so freaking hot.

He stared down at me, gun still pointed at my head, but his green eyes were soft and filled with sympathy.

I knew at that moment that he wasn't going to kill me.

"I didn't do anything to him. I just met him," I said, slowly putting my hands up.

"Oh, yeah? Then why does he want you dead?"

"I don't know, sir. I needed money, and he offered me a job. I don't know anything else."

He lowered his gun and narrowed his eyes at me. "What's your name, kid?"

I rolled my eyes and scoffed at the term of endearment. "Bella."

"Bella," he mused, tucking the gun into his waistband, giving me a brief glimpse of his hard stomach and the tattoos beneath.

He crouched down, getting eye level with me. I could see his face fully now. He had a strong jaw, full lips, and a perfect nose. The piercing in his eyebrow and lip was distracting, but the coppery, bronzed-colored hair that was standing every which way, but straight genuinely caught my eye.

Who was this guy?

"How old are you?" he asked.

"Seventeen."

He assessed me briefly, probably deciding what to do with me. He caught me red-handed trying to steal his car. I just hoped he didn't call the cops. They would call Renee and make her come pick me up. I rather die than be put back in that shithole.

He held out his hand to me, and I could see the tattoos on his body trailing down his arms in an inked sleeve. I jerked away from his polite gesture on pure instinct.

The guy just had a gun to my head. I didn't care if he was the hottest guy I'd ever seen. He was still dangerous.

He seemed to understand my reaction, his hand slowly retreating from me and resting it on the side of the car to balance himself.

"I'm Edward."

"So?"

He smiled, crooked and imperfect, but it suited him.

"So, are you hungry, kid?"