Chapter Two
Why the fuck did I think I'd like Florida for Christ's sake?
The air outside the airport is stifling. Steamy and muggy with the heat of planes roaring overhead as they take off while the hot pavement is springy and moist under my feet.
Out of habit, I've gone ahead and prepared for where I am. I've studied the local traffic laws, researched and contemplated every road map. I even went so far as to pin down every law enforcement establishment in a ten mile radius and memorize their employees.
But this trip not being work and having a more personal agenda has thrown me off my game. My long-sleeved shirt feels like armor and I do a mental checklist of my entire luggage, because the one thing I forgot to do was research the local climate for the duration of my stay.
Four suits, two cashmere sweaters, five pairs of dark denim jeans, six button-down long-sleeve shirts and one pair of leather loafers. Fuck. I roll my eyes at myself. I don't think I even own swim trunks.
I don't do vacations. I don't know how. The feeling that I'm failing is driving me batshit and I've only been here ten minutes. Irritation starts to set in, so I close my eyes and take a deep breath, only it's exhaust that fills my nose and lungs, making me grimace. That's not the outcome I'd hoped for. Nothing is working out and I'm edgy, wondering how I'm going to survive the rest of my mandatory holiday. I'm probably the only hitman in the history of hitmen that has a Xanax prescription.
I dutifully stand in the taxi line even though I feel like being a downright prick by hailing a cab farther up the arrivals walkway, jumping ahead of the tourists in front of me. But despite this not being work, it's in my nature to not call attention to myself. A fact I see I'm also failing at as the old woman in front of me with a pink visor stuck in her gray curls feels the need to point out my long-sleeved, black shirt and crisp, gray pants.
"Leprosy. I have a terrible case of leprosy. Wouldn't want my skin to fall off and land on your beautiful, orthopedic white sandals now, would we?" My smile is devilish as I look down at her, and despite my learned behavior of blending into the populace, it feels good to let a bit of character out. She wisely turns and pushes her husband to walk forward in the line even though it hasn't moved.
Finally seated in the back of a cab with a powerful air conditioner, I peer out the window as we ride along the coast where the Gulf of Mexico and the warmer waters of the Atlantic combine to make the most extraordinary shade of blue-green I've ever laid eyes on in person. Palm trees sway amongst candy-colored houses and buildings, and the calypso music the cabbie has on (to get tourists in the mood and liable to tip more, I'm sure) isn't as offensive as I would've thought. I find I'm tapping my foot, caught up in the Caribbean feel and hopeful that maybe this won't be a bust after all.
Paying for my ride along with a tip (moderate, and in cash of course), I'm pleased my hotel is as promised and on the very end of the island, and once I see my room, I'm happy albeit apprehensive that I went ahead and defied logic a bit, requesting one of the grand suites set apart from the main hotel. Despite it being showy, it should still have the benefit of being private, but I just couldn't deny myself a bit of luxury in the form of a 270 degree view of the Gulf.
The suite is large, mostly decorated in whites with hints of blue. Large sliders open almost fully along the wall, allowing for the breathtaking view of the aqua water and the little Island of Sunset Key, an exclusive enclave for the super-rich that sits a ways away. I've never been one to want to own majestic things due to the nature of my occupation - I drive a very normal Jeep, I live in a moderately priced condo in an unassuming building - but standing on my private balcony with its all-glass barrier I can see the appeal of actually spending the money I earn.
I pull my heavy shirt away from my skin as the sun is falling to the South at my left, preparing to sink under the water for the night and decide against my lack of desire for the chore, that the first order of business will be to go buy some more appropriate clothing.
I can't deny that the warm air feels good on my now bare legs, and although I'm pretty pale from the Seattle weather and my general hate/hate relationship with the sun, the white linen shirt I've paired with a respectable pair of khaki cargo shorts is cool and comfortable. Even though the sun is now down for the evening, the air is still sticky, the only respite is the cool breeze that sometimes washes through the buildings over Duval Street from the Gulf.
Boisterous revelers are getting their drink on inside the many bars that line the street, live music in all forms floating out through the open air windows that all the restaurants seem to have. I stop to watch one fellow on a piano, playing comedic songs and not having to try too hard to get the tipsy crowd involved in a sing-along. I toy with the idea of going in to see if it's something I'd enjoy, but before I can open the door an inebriated woman falls out and into my hold. Her arms fall around my waist so her face is pressed right up against my stomach, and she turns her head so her cheek rests there before struggling to gain her footing. Her hands move up my chest, pulling herself into an upright position and leaves them on my arms as I drop my shopping bags to help steady her. In her drunken state, she begins to caress my skin.
It's stunning, the contact, and it's then that it dawns on me I don't touch a lot of people, nor do they touch me. My job requires I have as little to do with my targets as possible, my family isn't really the hugging type, and I'm not the best romantic candidate. It's been a long time since I've touched someone with feeling and had it returned to me.
Stepping away from her, I make sure the girl's friends have corralled her safely and decide to get back to what makes me comfortable. The confines of my hotel room and watching people from afar.
The Pier House has many fine attributes, and as I walk past the pool I decide to put my newly purchased swim shorts to use tomorrow. Underwater you can be anonymous. You can be alone with a lot of people.
But the finest attribute by far is the barely occupied bar, the overhead palm fans swirling the air lazily and making my humid and unruly hair flutter in my eyes. I watch the young couple in the seats at the end, smoking and drinking and making out. They're caught up in each other, her sunburnt skin and sundress bright under the lighting. Possibly recently engaged or on their honeymoon. The guy has had his mouth stuck to her neck for about ten minutes as she squeals and continues to look at whatever is adorning her finger.
My nerves hit me as I watch the bartender a while, before she goes behind a wall of bottles carrying a box she just emptied. Unsure I belong, I turn to go back to my room but pause, throwing my head back and sighing. I'll probably not have a better opportunity at a diminished crowd as I do right now once the sun is up and the beachgoers monopolize the outdoor bar. I just wasn't expecting to be social quite this early into my trip.
I make my move to a seat on the other side of the bar farthest from the couple, to ensure they have a bit of privacy, but mostly to avoid making myself squirm if I were to be in close proximity. The bartender comes back around but doesn't notice me yet, so I watch her move her hands under the water she's bent over, washing glasses and placing them up on the drying bin. I look her up and down, taking in her frayed denim shorts and Keds, which make me smile, reminding me of a long ago time when things were simpler… for a while.
Her breasts are perfect, the shirt they're behind pulling taut as the title of the hotel stretches between them. Long, wavy brown hair falls down the front of her shirt getting dangerously close to the water she's using.
My stomach clenches and knots, flips and violently tumbles. My throat makes an embarrassing, unbecoming, strangled sound.
"I'm sorry, sir, I didn't see you there. What can I get you?" She turns with a smile on her beautiful face, wiping her hands on a dish rag.
The smile falls instantly.
Part of me hoped she wouldn't recognize me so I could back away with my tail between my legs, even though I knew the sole purpose of coming here was to see her. I'm both happy that she hasn't forgotten me and sickened by the fact she doesn't seem as pleased as I am to be back in each other's company.
The towel she's holding gets flung over her shoulder, and she braces an arm against the counter and another on her hip. I can't help but notice her fingers skimming the skin the rise of her t-shirt has exposed. Well, it's less of a skim, more of a clawing.
"Well, well, well. If it isn't Edward Cullen. Slap me on the ass and call me Sally."
"Hello, Bella." My adrenaline kicks up at hearing the slightly raspy voice that hasn't changed. As I wait for her to say something else, my smile falls at the blank expression she's wearing, and I clear my throat, uncharacteristically anxious. "It's been a long time."
Her eyebrows rise. "A long time," she drawls. "Well, yeah. I guess it has."
"How have you been?" Small talk. It's really not fun.
"I'm good, I'm good." She nods, pushing her hair back behind her ear. "Had hoped you were dead though, so seeing that you're not kind of puts a damper on my evening."
Dead? She hoped I was dead? Well that's worse than I thought. "Sorry to be a mood killer." I can't help but smirk a bit at my choice of words. My eyes take her in, just as beautiful if not more so since I knew her, way back when. Back when I was almost a good guy.
"Seeing as you're not, in fact, six feet under, I suppose I have to do my job and offer you a drink?"
"Uh, red wine. Something good." I'd really like to look at the wine list, but I'm not about to be a pretentious jerk right off the bat.
She looks at me a moment before shaking her head and turning to the open bottles under the bar. No one but me would notice the slight shake in her pour, the way her left hand holds the glass like she's afraid she's going to spill everything. The Bella I knew, my Bella, was cool and confident. Is this nervousness from me? Do I dare hope that she's not full of hatred? Understandable if she was, of course, but maybe she has a bit of excitement coursing through her at the prospect that I've returned?
Setting a napkin and the glass in front of me, she steps back like she can't stand to be too close. It's disheartening, but even I'm not enough of an ass to have thought that I'd be pulled into her warm, cupcake embrace and greeted the way she used to when I'd sneak into her room at night.
Okay, I am enough of an ass to think that maybe that would happen.
Taking a sip, I can't help but gag. "What the hell is this?"
"The farthest thing from anything good I have." She leans on the bar and shrugs. "I'm sort of hoping it makes you rethink whatever you were hoping to accomplish here and leave. The way me not being good enough made you do the same thing."
I'm stunned, floored that she thinks that's why I left. How could she not know what she meant to me? How could she doubt anything about that time we had together?
How could she not know how deeply I loved her? She thinks I left because of her?
"I take it you're mad that I never said goodbye?"
She looks at me like I'm a stupid kindergartener. "Mad? No. Not mad." She moves away and picks up the glasses she'd been letting air dry. Suddenly, a highball glass is hurdling full speed at my head. I'm barely able to move out of the way of the oncoming missile.
"I'm furious!" Another glass.
"Humiliated!" And yet another.
"Pissed off that I wasted years on you when I had perky, teenage tits!" Her aim improves, or my reflexes slow, because that last one hits me in the shoulder.
I might've been stupid to think things would be like we'd never parted, but I'm not stupid enough not to know it's time to retreat. Holding my hands up in surrender, I get up from my seat and back away.
"Why don't I come see you tomorrow, maybe when you've had time to settle down? I'm a guest here at the hotel."
She raises one more glass, weighing the heft in her hand. "See me tomorrow. Right. I seem to recall those actually being your last words before I never saw you again!" The glass flies perfectly towards my head, but this time, I'm fast enough to duck. "Go back to whatever shiny penny distracted you so much that you decided leaving like you never existed was not the biggest dick move in all of dick move history!"
I'm stupefied, my mouth hanging open in shock. She can't possibly think there was another girl?
"Well, I'll just-" Glass shattering next to my feet makes me fall back farther, my eyes widening and my mouth opening again with nothing coming out. Any smart remarks I can think of probably would not help the situation I've found myself in.
We have a bit of a stare-down, Bella's still perky chest heaving with anger and exertion. I guess the adrenaline that made her shake while pouring my wine wasn't the good kind. She closes her eyes to regain her composure and as quietly as I'd arrived at her bar, I've disappeared back into the shadows. I watch as she blinks and cranes her neck to see where I've gone off to, even asking the couple (that let's be honest, couldn't continue making out during our spat) where I'd gone.
Slinking back to my room and pressing myself against my door, I go over in my mind the events of the evening.
Seeing Bella: Good. Very good, in fact.
Bella seeing me: Hmm, not the reunion I've fantasized about for thirteen years.
Bella throwing things: That was never good, but I'm kind of thrilled she hasn't lost her penchant to do so.
Bella looking for me after I'd pulled a Houdini: Well that was surely positive... I think.
The likelihood I can mend this: A non-issue. I'm Edward Cullen.
And I always hit my mark.
Hey... guess what? It's KUSH night! If you're not reading this, start now. LayAtHomeMom is really nailing this one and I swoon big time over this Edward!
In other news... it's that time again! The official Twi Fic Meet Up is upon us! It'll be in San Diego this year, September 30-October 2. Come hit me up if you need the link. Hope to see YOU there!
Huge thanks as always to my GIF-loving pre-reader, LayAtHomeMom, and my favorite person/muse/beta, CarrieZM. Without them I am nothing.
And without you, I am just a bunch of unread words in cyberspace.
