A/N for 2018-09-01: Some of you have asked, via comment, if this story is based on personal experience: no. The inspiration comes largely from headlines, but also from the imagined slipping through the cracks that happened to an old school acquaintance, who is now quietly notorious as a victim of mass murderer Robert Pickton. Don't worry, no such fate for Bella here. I wish I could say the same for all such girls who find themselves in Bella's circumstances.

For those of you who write, you know that reviews are the drug that writers crave. No exception here. Love hearing from you all - even when it's just a word, or a smile.

~ Erin

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A Profitable Bird

Bella hadn't gone back to the house she'd first arrived at, near the club. When her client was 'done' with her, Mac had chivied her back downstairs to the other underside of the bar, this littered with mats, just like the church had been. This room, too, was locked, windows barred, and the emergency door nailed shut.

Now she tiptoed to her appointed space, apologizing when she brushed by Sally, who sleepily smiled, seeing her friend back safe, and then rolled back over.

Bella couldn't sleep though, after all the hours she'd had already. She'd pay for it later, she knew, when they were expected to be up until three or four, working.

Maybe he'd come again.

She strangled the thought as soon as it was born.

No point in having hope like that.

Or fantasies.

Her imagination had been brutalized enough by reality her first night.

She'd felt nearly numb, and dumb, struck by Edward's beauty. Then stunned by his kindness.

All this on on top of what he'd paid for her. He disposed of cash with a finesse that she'd never witnessed before. The total on the dress shop till had been a quarter of her mother's salary.

Here her heart fell again.

She'd hoped, in some logical part of her mind, that her debt was some amount she could possibly repay, that there was some escape she could wring from this misery herself.

Edward's money would have cleared her imagined sum, and more.

No, she was a possession, held until disposed of, or broken beyond repair. She was, for all practicalities, enslaved.

She would need to run. Somehow.

In the meantime, she needed to stop entrenching herself in any more debt, real or imagined. No more pills.

There'd been a few, and already she could feel the cloying anxiety slipping up her spine, watching every man who approached, wondering if he wanted to use her.

There'd only been one so far, and that had been enough to make her wary.

Maybe Edward would come back.

Or maybe David would.

No, she told herself again. Stay in the here and now.

There was only one certainty she could expect in her present circumstances, and a very few variations on what would flow from it.

But her mind stuck on Edward's face, and his name. It seemed familiar, like she'd encountered it before. She probably had, she surmised, but there had been so many names and faces in the last months, very few had stayed put. She let that wondering have its way, and then turned onto her stomach, burying herself in the better words, and world, of Jane Austen.

- 0 -

"And everything is fine, Alice," Edward bit out.

Done with keeping their fight private, she used words they could all hear now. "And you know it almost wasn't. That's why you turned off your phone."

"What?" Rosalie said, looking up. She'd known they were arguing, but had only heard Edward's vaguely worded responses to Alice's thought questions.

"Nothing, Rose."

"If Alice is upset, it isn't nothing."

"It kept her from worse," he said to Alice. "You would've seen it if you were looking."

"That's a stretch, even for you, Edward. It was a huge risk. And if you had, God Edward, people would've remembered you. It would 've fallen back on all of us—"

"Hey," Emmett called, his voice filling the house. "Explain, for the rest of us, please."

"Edward picked up a hooker last night."

Jasper, Emmett, and Rose all turned and stared at Edward.

Then Emmett burst into a fit of laughter.

"Not like that, Emmett," Edward growled out.

This only made him laugh harder, "oh no, of course not, no!"

Alice was regretting her choice of words, frowning at her brothers in turns. "Sorry," she said to Edward. "But it was close, and you know it. You'd never let anyone of us live it down if we'd done something like that."

Emmett had recovered himself by now. "OK, fill us in, what noble cause were you serving, picking up a hooker?" A grin stretched wide across his face.

Edward growled at him, and Emmett raised his hands in surrender. When the aggression receded, he said, "I went with my classmates, fitting in. Remember?"

"Sure, sure," Emmett said, in a more subdued tone. Rose was glowering at him.

"Some of them came up with the idea to find some women 'to rent' for the evening. One of them had serious intentions of doing so...and not kindly. I took the girl he was interested in."

"What he's not mentioning is that he was so out of control, he almost killed her in front of all of them."

"And you took her for the night?" Rose asked, horrified. "We've just got back here Edward—!"

"Everything is fine," Edward gritted through his teeth.

Then Alice showed him what else she'd seen.

"Really?" she asked, a perfect eyebrow arched. "Is it?"

Edward eyed her darkly, anger making his jaw rigid. "I would never. You know that."

"Sure, you say that now," she muttered. "You're flirting with disaster, Edward." She stood and walked away, pulling Jasper by the hand. This left Edward to the tender mercies of Rosalie and Emmett, both of whom had questions ready, like knives, all pointed, sharp and ready for fleshy targets undefended by Alice's visions.

- 0 -

"Wait inside, Birdy," Mac called, "you've been reserved."

Her heart sort of stuttered over the next beat, as he disappeared with the other girls, wondering by whom.

She sat there sometime, waiting, dressed as he'd directed her, books and purse left downstairs. She didn't want to risk losing them on the street, or having them snatched. She'd tucked both volumes into the bottom of her sleeping bag, hoping they'd still be there when she got back. Certain her probability for disappointment was high.

"You've been quite profitable little bird," Jim said, walking down the hall where she sat.

Not sure how one replied to a compliment on the commodification of her body, Bella said nothing, flicking her eyes up and then down in silent acknowledgement.

"I said," he repeated, lifting her chin roughly with his hand, "that you've made us some good money. You can smile and say 'thank you' for the opportunity we're giving you to repay your debt."

Or she could spit in his face.

"Thank you," she mumbled between his fingers.

"What do they want from you?" he said, letting her go abruptly.

"Different things," she muttered.

He chuckled. "You must be good. You can show me when you get back."

She closed her eyes and swallowed.

"Pardon?" he asked.

"Yes," she made herself say.

He patted her cheek with a quiet "Good girl," and then walked back towards his office.

"Birdy!" Mac yelled, "c'mon!"

She almost tripped, when she saw Edward at the door. The relief was so viscerally palpable.

And foolish, a voice in her head said. What he wanted last night doesn't mean anything. He could want everything tonight.

And be brutal in the having of it.

"Hi Birdy," he said, more softly adding, "If that's your name." He pointed down the block, and then matched her speed, giving her space to answer.

She said nothing, hoping he wouldn't press this point. She wanted her name for herself. Not for here. For this.

He didn't, and soon they were at his car. It was black and sleek, with seats that smelled of expensive leather. He had to help her down into one of them, and again the touch of his hand sent a ripple up her arm. His skin was icy cold. He held onto her fingers just a touch longer than she would expect, and she dared to glance up, trying to understand the intensity of his face.

When he slid elegantly in the other side, he looked at her, sort of leaning back against the door, like he wanted more space than the car afforded. There wasn't much in his seat chair, and the proximity showed her that his eyes were a warm butterscotch. She could have sworn they were black the night before.

"Did you get contacts?" she blurted out, squinting.

He looked concerned, briefly, but then his calm face slid back into place. "No."

She didn't challenge him. It wasn't her place to.

"What would you like to do tonight?" he asked, turning on the car, pulling away from the curb.

She bit her lip. "I think I'm supposed to ask you that."

He glanced at her, eyes not on the road enough for her ease.

Again, not her place to comment. The other girls had been clear on that.

Don't do anything to make them mad. Apologize if they screw up. Say sorry if they can't get it up. Don't ever suggest they've done something wrong. Or that's their fault. Clients are usually drunk. Or high. Or close to being there. They might look docile, but it's all an act, and you're the thing that they can take their frustrations out on.

"Whatever you'd like," she said.

It was what Mac had told her to say if the client asked.

The first one, David, had, and she'd answered just the same.

Then he'd shown her.

When he'd had enough of her choking and gagging, he'd pushed her away in exasperation.

"Have you eaten?" Edward asked.

"A bit," she breathed out, recalling herself to the present.

"Then let's have dinner. What kind of food would you like?"

The wave of feeling swept up over her. It was illogical, and connected to nothing, and everything. To be considered. Asked after. It made her want her grandmother's food. Her hug.

"Italian, if that's alright," she breathed.

"Absolutely," he said, turning the car around. "I know just the place."

Sitting across another table, this one as private as the last, she dared ask. "How did you know about this place, if you can't eat anything here?"

"Some classmates had been here," he shrugged. "Said it was nice."

She doubted that from the prices on the menu, but nodded. It was safer to show unthinking acceptance.

"How're your books?"

"Good," she smiled genuinely, "thank you. And, for taking me out, again."

She felt stupid as soon as she said it. It wasn't a date. He'd bought her for the night. He could bend her over his car if it pleased him, and then use her as a punching bag.

Like Harriet had been.

They'd given her a few nights off after that. The bruises were too obvious not to.

"I enjoy your company," he said, but with a smile that was strained. Like he was sad about something.

"It's OK," she said, "you were really nice last night. I understand what you've paid for. I don't want you to feel...awkward about asking for it—"

"No," he said abruptly, his eyebrows shoved together. "I don't feel awkward, because I have no plans to ask for that. I just...want to spend time with you."

Why? She wondered. There was no future here. She was a...and she had to lurch over the words in her head: a whore. A prostitute. A 'fallen woman', as her grandmother had once scoffed out.

That phrase had been the butt of a few family jokes, when Bella, in her childish ignorance had asked if she was a 'fallen woman', because she fell so much. She'd pictured them as women with lots of bruises and broken bones. She hadn't been so far off.

Renee had thought it was hilarious. Threatened to tell the joke at Bella's wedding.

Bella had a sudden urge of wishing she'd asked for one of the pills.

Looking across her, Edward's face was a study in concern.

Feeling the tears just nudging their way out of her eyes, she muttered, "sorry," stilling the panic that wanted to join them. It wasn't safe to cry. Not at all.

That maxim from Patty had already been practically learned too.

"Don't be."

If he wanted to waste his money on her company, she couldn't complain.

It was better than David's way. Her chest bruising under the stricture of his belt. She shifted in her chair, still sore sitting on hard surfaces.

Edward turned his attention to safer interests again, and by the end of dinner had her laughing with a very convincing impersonation of Mr. Darcy.

"Do you like to swim?" he asked, as they left the restaurant.

"I do, actually," she said, noticing how he stayed close to her, but just far away enough that they didn't touch. She stepped just out of her expected pace, sideways, testing his movement. He matched it, perfectly. She wondered if he was an athlete, or a dancer. "You?"

"I love anything that involves movement. Running. Swimming. Dancing." He looked sideways at her, eyes glinting.

She smiled.

"Would you like to go swimming?"

"Sure," she said, "I, um, didn't bring my swimsuit, though," then felt her breathing hitch on itself. Perhaps he expected her not to need one.

"I prepared for that eventuality."

When they pulled up at a tall glass building, her eyebrows squished together in confusion.

"My place," he said. "There's a nice pool."

He wasn't kidding. It was part of the penthouse, which he apparently called home, set in glass that made it look like you could swim right over the edge. It looked as personally touched as the hotel, devoid of anything that would indicate he lived there. Perhaps he had multiple homes.

"There's a guest room there," he said, pointing. "Everything you need is on the dresser."

As promised, she found a robe, towel, and a modest one-piece swimsuit, which fit perfectly. It also hid the thick bruise that ran across her chest, and onto her back

"It's lovely, thank you," she said, coming out to join him. He'd changed too, wearing even more modest attire than her: a long sleeved rashguard and simple swim trunks.

They made him look even god-like than before.

She had to pull her eyes away, burying them in the carpet's subtle shapes.

He grinned wickedly. "First one in gets to pick desert." Then, several yards further from the pool than she was, went to sprint towards it.

She barked out a laugh, and went to run too.

He was already many strides ahead of her, head whipping back, grinning, when she hit a slippery spot on the deck, her footing sliding out from under her.

But it was his arms that broke her fall, his worried face over hers.

"You OK?" he asked, face closer, studying the movement of her eyes.

"How did you do that?"

"Do what?"

"You were way ahead of me. You—"

"Did you hit your head?" he asked, voice insistent now.

"No," she said, getting herself upright.

His hand ghosted over the back of her skull, then flicked away, the space between them greater again.

"I didn't, I'm fine. But you were way ahead of me, and then you were right here."

"I think you hit your head."

"I'm fine," she growled, and then remembered herself, hushing out a quick, "sorry."

Shrewdness flickered over his face just before remorse settled in. "No, I am. I know better than to run near a pool." Then a playful grin overrode this. "Just shamelessly showing off."

She almost snorted. Him? Showing off? He barely had to do anything but breathe to impress people. She'd seen the reactions around her.

Felt her own.

He waved a hand towards the pool. "Ladies first. But maybe just walking to the edge this time."

"Sure," she said easily. It wouldn't do to have him think she was dwelling on what she'd seen. She'd puzzle it out later.

The water was warm, and after weeks of hurried showers, it felt marvellous to be immersed in the clear blue liquid. She wasn't a strong swimmer, but she could move well enough.

And then Edward got into the pool.

It was like watching a shark glide—his strokes soundless and elegant.

She paused, just to watch him.

"What?" he asked, seeing her still.

"You're just...a really...good swimmer." The words felt paltry, and grossly inadequate, describing what she saw.

"Not so bad yourself."

"Now I know you're lying."

He laughed, and shook his head. "You're stunning. I don't think you quite appreciate just how much."

She blushed, and then felt it all slide away from her face, wondering if this was where he asked for what he'd paid for.

David's ghostly hands found purchase on her hips again. He'd told her she was stunning too.

"I mean it," he said, seeing her face transform, "it isn't meant to be underhanded, or an overture to anything else. You're remarkable. In many ways."

"Thank you," she managed, hoping he meant all of it. She might have been able to tell, not so long ago, if he did. Now she doubted every motive, with every man.

When they'd dried off at the pool edge, he said, "they're some clothes for you in the dresser. Pajamas too, if you're more comfortable in those."

There were. Real pajamas. The kind her mom would have bought her. Button-down jersey bottoms and tops. As sexy as her dad's terry cloth bathrobe.

She actually laughed at them.

When she came back out to join him, he was wearing sweats and a t-shirt. Again, she stared at his turned back, glancing away as he twisted to look at her. He made it look couture.

"That bad?" he asked, eyebrows up, "Heard you laughing. Sorry, I don't have a lot of experience in buying women's clothes."

"They're great, no. I was laughing because they're something my mom would've bought." She'd prepared the statement, rehearsed it, so it wouldn't hurt to speak it aloud.

"Mm. Then I'll assume I was successful, if it was mom approved."

She smiled at this, and he held out a cup of tea for her, a soft "thank you," on her lips.

Then a surge of feeling swept over her, and she sat too quickly onto the chair he'd pulled out for her.

"Thank you," she whispered, trying to master the feeling, "for letting me feel normal." She wasn't quite successful, the tears starting. She wiped her eyes, willing them to stop.

His hand was half poised to reach out for hers, but he clasped it back to his other, and they both sat, staring at their own hands. After a moment, he said, "you don't have to go back, if you don't want to."

She realized just how precarious a point she stood on with these words.

And she felt very, very cold.

The tears stopped suddenly.

He could be testing her, for them.

All this could be a show. An elaborate assessment of her loyalty.

"I owe them," she said in a monotone voice. "I need to repay my debt."

"That can be done."

And then what? Be owned by another man? One whose motives seemed good. What did she really know of him after two nights? Nothing, really. His most cursory interests. That he attended medical school. Purportedly. That he had access to more money than she'd ever imagined one person having. Its origins were unknown. He could be as criminal as they were.

She made her breathing as steady as she could, but it remained shallow, as if she were risking something to move the air in and then out.

In her peripheral vision, she could see his face working. Looking for another way to reveal her disloyalty. Or maybe trying to relieve her of the burden he'd placed on her.

She spied a diversion in the corner. "You play chess?"

"Yes," he said, an elusive feeling fluttering over his face. "Do you?"

"No, but I'm a quick learner."

"I bet you are." He stood and picked up the board, bringing it back. "Do you know the pieces?"

She shook her head, and he began naming them, introducing her to the rudimentary elements of the game.

They played for sometime, until she stifled one, then another yawn.

"The guest room is yours."

"Sorry," she said, trying to hold in the next yawn.

"It's OK." His words were buttered with the captivating grin that slid up his face.

God he was good, she thought. If he was testing her. She wondered what he would tell them. If.

She was so tired though, and she would've stayed to watch this expression longer, but her eyelids were betraying her wants, and she stood, a quiet "night," her only farewell, as she walked towards the bedroom.

Would he care if she locked the door? Then she did, deciding he could use a key if he wanted her. It would at least give her warning. Unlike the last time.

David had let her go to sleep, too. Then woken her in a way she never wanted to experience again.

She shivered, remembering, stilling the sob in her throat, chastising herself. She needed to get over it. There would be more. It was just the meeting of bodies. The first was the hardest, all the other girls had told her. It wouldn't be so shocking the next time. Or painful.

When she woke in the morning, the door was still locked, and Edward was sitting at the dining room table, the smell of food fresh in the air. "Breakfast?" he asked.

"Yes please, but I can get it," she said, watching him stand and shake his head.

"So can I. Sit, please."

He came back a moment later with a plate of bacon, eggs, and perfectly cut pieces of toast.

"Thank you. That looks amazing."

"You're welcome. It's nice to cook for someone."

After a moment, he nodded towards her outfit. "Comfy?"

She'd dressed herself in the clothes he'd provided, and it was a luxury to wear jeans, a simple shirt, and sneakers.

"Wonderful," she said, letting a small grin blossom. "You have no idea how uncomfortable heels are."

"I can imagine."

How easy this is, she thought, and painful too, seeing something you can't have. Don't have. She wondered what it would be like to wake up in the same place as him each day.

If he really meant what he'd said.

No, she told herself. If you know anything, it's that you can only rely on yourself. Be done with this fantasy. It'll only be more painful to let go of, the longer you entertain it.

She punched down the hopes that wanted to have place in her throat, giving a polite 'goodbye' when he dropped her at the club.

"Wait," he called, moving out of the car with a litheness that compelled her eyes. He came close, his fingers just brushing hers. "I'll see you tonight."

Mac was waiting at the door, his larger fingers curled in command, beckoning her in.

Slipping inside the heavy metal firedoor, she tiptoed down the hall, when Jim's voice sung out, slightly slurred with drink. "Bir-dee! Where'd'ya think you're goin'? Come 'n show me why all the boys like ya so much."

DISCLAIMER: S. Meyer owns Twilight. No copyright infringement intended.