(Thirteen)

My apartment is empty when I return. But she's everywhere. The smell of coffee, the bed made better than I'd ever make it. The bowl where I keep the matchbooks looks exactly the same, but The Red Lantern is left on the countertop.

I don't hang around to see if anything else is different, heading to work as if nothing has changed. I try to picture how I'm going to get past her. I can't decide whether to head to one of my old haunts and pick up a stranger, or if I should call on some old "friends." I wonder what Bella would say if she saw me with another woman. I think it all through. Then again. Yet every scenario, the woman I'm with is Bella. The thought of coming home to find her still there is more powerful than anything else I can imagine. This is how I know I won't see it through. How I know I won't revert to type. I'm almost relieved.

It used to be easy to lose track of time in written words—not anymore. Some days they pour like wine, others, the bottle runs dry. But for once, I get through the workload quicker than I have in weeks. The reason? I have somewhere to be afterward.

The front door to her apartment building is closed this time, but it only takes one little lie to the woman in 450 to get myself inside. Bella's door is closed, too, so I knock. There's no response, so I let myself in. I tell myself she'd be okay with it. I try her cell, but it rings out, so I go on with what I came here to do.

The lock could be repaired, but I figure she might want a new one. It only takes me around an hour. I keep an ear out for any noises, but there's no sign of her. I wager whether I should wait inside but decide against it. The right decision, I realize, when I hear heavy boots on the stairs.

Tahoe rounds the corner, eyes fixed on the phone in his hand. When he sees me standing outside his door, he immediately switches on, eyes wary. "Who are you?"

I don't like to answer questions, especially to fucks like him. He flexes his fingers, curls them into a ball as he looks me up and down. He hesitates when he spots the wrench by my feet. "You here to mend the door?"

"Yeah." I gesture at the broken lock. "How'd it happen?"

He rakes a hand through his spiked hair, follows it up with a shrug. "Some kids tried to break in."

"Kids, huh? This doesn't look like kids, to me."

"Oh yeah, what does it look like?"

"You tell me."

"Why the fuck would I do that?" He pushes out his chest and straightens, trying to gain a few inches, but I've got the advantage of not giving a shit—about anything. "Who called you out … Bella?"

"I'm just lending a helping hand. For a friend," I add and his dark eyes flicker with anger.

"What did you say your name was again?"

"I didn't."

"Well, whoever you are, you can leave. I can handle this myself."

I laugh. It has the desired effect and trips his switch.

"I don't know who the fuck you think you are, hotshot, but you need to get the hell out, and stay away from Bella, too."

I fold my arms, and cock my head. This guy kills me with his stupidity. "Is that a threat?"

"Take it however you like. Edward, isn't it?" He smiles like a kid who's worked out where the cookie jar is hidden. "You're the one she's been seeing? The drunk."

His knowledge puts me on the back foot for a second, but I don't show him the loss of balance. "And you're what ... her landlord, or maybe just a cockroach infesting her place?"

"You've no idea who I am?"

"Nope. Maybe you should fill me in." His face hardens and I wait for him to lash out.

"I'll make this easy for you. Stay away from Bella, then we won't have to be introduced."

"And if I don't?"

He takes a step toward me, his muscles coiling with his fists. "Then we have a problem."

"I'm good with problems."

He laughs again, and then he lunges. I dodge his heavy movement easily. His nostrils flare like a bull. I wave a red rag. "It's funny, because she never even mentioned you and she had plenty of opportunities."

He snorts, and throws everything he has to scare me off. "I wouldn't believe a word out of that bitch's mouth."

I dip under another lunging punch, and land a right hook on his jaw with a crack. I've been in my cage too long, and this fucker has made the mistake of letting me out.

I punch him in his face—one, twice. Blood on his lips, my knuckles. He touches the split skin, tastes the wound, then cracks his neck and hunkers down to go in for seconds. I twist out the way, but make the mistake of turning left—it gives him the chance to grab the wrench lying outside the door.

The metal smashes into my ribs, doubling me over, and as his fist catches my temple, stars explode in my vision.

I unravel my rage and slam my body into his. It causes him to stumble, and I take the chance to take him down. His head hits the floor with a sick thud that momentarily stuns him. He drops the wrench, and I pin him down, my knee on his arm, my elbow across his neck, choking his fight out of him.

Blood in my mouth. A siren in the distance. A woman shouts up the stairs, telling us she's called the police. I spit, staining the concrete red beside his head.

"If she wants to go. You let her." I reach into my back pocket and pull of a wad of cash, slamming it down next to him. "That should cover her debt."

I release my hold on him. He's too dazed to fight back, so I stand, leaving him on the ground. He's wary now, but still stupid. "You're welcome to her."

He has no clue what he's willing to give up or how much I want it. "Stay away," I repeat.

I head down the stairs before the cops can show up. My heart is racing, my body is screaming, but the only thing I listen to is the voice inside my head telling me I need to find Bella.

She still hasn't answered her phone by the time I get home. I strip off my clothes and examine the bruises already spreading under my skin, bleeding across my ribs. Fuck. The shower does little to ease my aches. I rest my hands against the cool tiles, let the burning water scald my head. The adrenaline drains away with the water, its absence leaves me feeling weak and tired. And stupid. I let my forehead drop against the tiles, too, and I stay there until the water runs cold.

I've given up trying to sleep. I'm too wired, and I don't have the patience to wait for it to creep over me. The noise of the TV is a hum, and the sirens on the streets are my only company until Bella turns up, banging on my door.

She barges past me into the apartment as soon as I turn the lock, leaving me squinting into the fluorescent-bright hall. "Hello to you, too."

I close the door as she flips the main light on . She's in my face as soon as I turn around.

"What the hell happened?" Her eyes scan the welt on my cheek, the growing shadow of my black eye. "Why have I got a hundred missed calls from Sam? Texts and voicemails, shouting about you?"

"You should talk to him." A headache buzzes behind my eyes. I rub at them and turn the light back off, plunging us back into the half-light of regret and bad ideas. I try to walk past her, but she halts me with a hand against my damaged ribs. I hiss out a curse, and she pulls her hand back like she's been stung.

"Are you okay?"

I shrug her off and collapse on the couch, stiff and aching in every bone. "I'm fine."

"You're not, so stop saying that to me." She comes to perch on the edge of the coffee table, tucking her hands under her thighs, blocking the flickering TV screen.

I can't find the energy to move my head to look elsewhere, so I focus on her. She's flicking between emotions like the pages of a book under my thumb. Concern, anger, hurt, concern, anger, exhaustion. "I'm okay. It's nothing I can't handle."

"What happened?" she asks again, this time dialled down to match the muted newsreader talking about oil prices.

I want to work out where I stand before I tell her—on the line or way over it. "Haven't you spoken to him already?"

"No, there's no point when he's like that … but I've got an idea." She gestures to my state.

I'm pissed that he's still an issue, but all I can do now is wait and see. What he does. What she does. "I went to fix your door."

"And Sam was there?"

"No ... not at first. But he arrived not long after." I lean my head back against the cushions, her attention making me conscious of the state of my face. I tell her everything. I realize how bad it sounds. How bad I sound. I see that I've made choices that weren't mine to make. I moved her pieces and tricked her into checkmate. When I look back at her I expect to see disgust, not the sadness folding in on her. I'm a class A asshole.

"I shouldn't have done that," I say, wanting to bring back the fire in her eyes.

She shrugs, standing and heading into the kitchen. In the darkness she's a shadow, as if she's left herself behind. I follow her, wincing at the twinge in my ribs as I move.

"Do you have any ice?" She pulls open the freezer, searching around and finding nothing but an old, empty bottle of Cuervo. A keepsake. My own message in a bottle. Her hand glances over it, and I expect a snarky remark, but she remains silent, smashing out a handful of cubes and wrapping them in a hand towel.

She reaches up and presses it against my T-shirt. "Is it sore here?"

I nod, and she presses a little harder, her chin tilting with a glimpse of nerve.

"I'm sorry, Bella," I say again, and can't help but add, "He's no good."

She sighs and busies herself wrapping and rewrapping the ice. "No … he's not, but …" She frowns and dips her head, worrying at the ice pack for a second until she shakes whatever she was going to say away, and returns to tending to my wounds.

I can't stand to have her help, but I don't want her to stop touching me. I settle on holding my hand over hers, pressing the edges of ice against my swollen rib cage until it screams. "Talk to me."

"It's just that you say he's no good, but … he's all I have here and, well … then you let things slide, I guess."

"You shouldn't have to."

"Yeah, but I've known him for a long time, and I was trying to get myself straight, to get my own place."

"You think he would ever let you go? It's a game to him. You're a game."

"He loves me." She's fierce again now, holding on to this untruth like it's the final piece of her flawed armor.

"Maybe," I say.

He doesn't.

Not like I could. I can't work out if I'm lying to myself or if it's a seed of truth that might grow.

The burn of the ice is replaced by the burn of her fingers as they slide under my shirt. She raises the hem with her other hand, following the reddening slices across my side. The damage to my skin is vibrant in the dim light. Black and blue. Red and raw. She counts up my ribs, fingertips fluttering as gently as she dares. "You should get this looked at. They might be broken."

"They're not," I say.

We're both damaged in places you can't see or feel, by people and places that have left their graffiti under our skin. It won't come off; we can only cover it with our own markings. She presses in the wrong place, against an old wound, hidden under new. I flinch as if she's ripped her nails over me. It frightens her away.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you."

"It's okay. You didn't." I pull my T-shirt back down and step back. I've known her for what feels like a minute and a lifetime, depending on where I let my barriers fall, but this final one might be too high to get around. "Do you need to stay here tonight?"

"Do you want me to?"

She waits patiently for an answer I'm not going to give, wrapping her arms around herself the longer the silence grows. I've already said too much and I think she know what I want. She gives up and shows me her cards. It's a bad hand. "I need to see Sam … to talk."

"And then what?"

She mirrors my silence. Of course, she would. She's getting good at playing me at my own game.

"Be careful," I say, fighting back the urge to pull her to me, to take what I want and make her mine.

She hovers likes she's waiting for that, too, but then rushes out when the sand in our unexpected acquaintance finally runs out.

It's exactly what I wanted.

It's exactly what I need.

Isn't it?

I stand for a second, torn between chasing after her but force myself to fill that urge with another bad habit instead. I climb out onto the fire escape and light up. It gives me a chance to watch her walk away. But the pull to go to her only grows, and I wonder when it'll snap—whether it will—or if we're just tangled elastic.

I get my answer when she stops dead, causing people on the sidewalk to swerve round her. Turn around. As soon as I think it, she does, darting across the road, oblivious to the car that screeches to a halt behind her. My heart falls to the floor then races back up when she disappears back into my building. I can't get to the door fast enough. I want her too much to think about the damage. I need her enough to risk everything I'm trying to achieve because, for the first time, something makes me feel alive. She gives me a reason.

AN: Thank you for reading, you lovely lot. He's getting himself in deep isn't he?

Quadruple thanks to my girls for their extra help this week. I've been a pain.

Extra love to TLS esp Kim and Nic for rec'ing ACOY this week. You're too kind.

And lastly, all the love to Choc and Ficsisters for featuring ACOY a couple of weeks ago. Choc did the most amazing write up. She's brilliant, and I love her dearly.

See you all next week.

Sparrow xx