Hey guys! I know FF was having trouble all day, some of you couldn't review, and a large number couldn't see the chapter at all. I've deleted the original 3 and posted it again, so it's possible you've read this earlier today. I'm so very sorry, and I'm heartbroken I lost all of your kind words.


Chapter 3

The next morning, a beautiful, bright, oppressively muggy day, I decide to sit down and plan my attack on Bella. It's what I do - extensive research and preparation to execute a successful outcome. Execute, heh.

My laptop is open in front of me and I'm sipping a pretty good cup of coffee, while deciding if the internet is really the smart option. I never use the World Wide Web to look up my targets obviously, so that there's never a connection in cyberspace to anyone. But since I'm not planning on killing Bella, it's probably okay in this instance.

I type in her name, and just the act of doing so is thrilling. I-S-A-B-E-L-L-A. It's something I've toyed with over the years but never got up the nerve to do. The only info I've had on her in thirteen years is when I allowed myself that one slip and hacked into the DMV database on the laptop of a target after 'retiring' him, an employee that had made the mistake of selling information to the wrong guy and not being able to keep quiet about it.

I frown, thinking now that it's quite possible she chose this humid place to be as far away from our home state of Washington that the United States would allow, just to get away from the memory of me. I wallow in self-pity while I wait the impossible half a second for Google to show me what it knows about Bella.

Only two things come up. There's a Bella Swan that has a boyfriend who is the local Halo champ in Ohio, and the other is an address from the White Pages here in Key West. I think I'll go with the address.

Pulling up a map, I see it's not really within walking distance but decide to do so anyway, to scope out her neighborhood for any potential threats. Bella never did think of her safety, she was always pushing limits, trying to see how far she could take things. It wouldn't surprise me if she lives in the worst part of town just to prove she can handle it.

I take another sip of coffee and smile, allowing myself to wander through my repressed memories, the ones I've forced myself to keep inside after I did what I did. They're crawling to the surface in droves, freed from their prison after just ten exciting (albeit frustrating) minutes with her.

Bella, my little ulcer-maker.

She was the first girl to jump off the cliff at La Push, egged on by the reservation kids, unwilling to think that she couldn't do it because of her gender. She never thought twice about hitchhiking even when she knew I'd come get her, always excited by the prospect of meeting someone new. Huffing glue in the girl's room just to be able to say she had occupied her one boring Thursday afternoon.

My smile turns dark as I inevitably pull up one that angered me the most - when she had walked alone at midnight drunk from the Christmas rager her old friend Angela threw, one of the only times where our parents were able to separate us and I had to attend my Aunt's holiday party.

I loved that about her, though, too. The carefree way she didn't have any regard for her own life, expecting everything to work out with a shrug of her shoulders and a smile she knew would melt me.

Which it always did.

But oh, the fight we had after I found out about that walk home. I don't think anything was left on her dressers once we were done, her aim thankfully pretty bad. I feel myself growing hard remembering the great dry hump session that ensued after that one amidst a pile of broken glass, torn books, and dirty socks.

Man, that girl could turn on a eunuch, grinding and swiveling her hips like a belly dancer on ecstasy. I'd be lying if I said her anger didn't still affect me. I made a beeline for the moisturizer I keep in my toiletry bag when I got back from seeing her last night. It may or may not have been her old favorite Bath and Body Works Tahiti Island Dream scent.

Donning another new outfit of cargo shorts and a linen shirt, I grab my sunglasses and a stylish fedora hat I picked up made of straw. Looking in the mirror, I think I look pretty good, and ordinary. Like a tourist (sans a dreadful fanny pack). Which is excellent.

Making a quick pass from a distance, I sweep the bar and see a different bartender on duty. Perhaps Bella only works nights, something that would make sense. She was always a night owl, often keeping me on the phone well into dawn as we talked about nothing and everything even though we'd just spent eighteen hours together that day. We were obsessed, all-encompassing, our souls only circling each other.

The ache for her is still there in me, keeping me company on my walk, but I'm less sure after last night's encounter if it's the same for her. The need to have her never left even when I denied it and told myself it was best for her that she not be with me. I pause as I get closer to her neighborhood, suddenly stricken with an idea that had not entered my mind since I booked my trip and subconsciously hatched my plan to win her back. What if she has a boyfriend? Or Jesus, she might be married. Or maybe I turned her gay.

Occasionally, I have brief moments of panic right before a job, something I consider a good thing as it means I haven't lost my humanity. I'm feeling a bit of it now, so I give myself the pep talk I usually do when this happens and don't want to drug myself. I assume it'll have the same outcome, so I duck into an empty bus shelter and close my eyes.

Go get 'em, Edward. You're the best hitman there is. No one can do what you do when all you have at your disposal is a letter opener and a rubber band (don't ask).

I say this three times, and my mood lifts so I square my shoulders, more determined than ever. Even if she is involved in any of the unfortunate relationships I've considered, she won't be in any of them for long.

I've always been a fast walker, but I make myself stroll so as to not call attention to myself while I amble through the streets of Key West, getting farther from the tourist area and into what is definitely a residential section. I assume most of the people that work on the island reside here, the small homes and condos are still painted in the candy colors but lack a good view like the mansions on the other side of town that line the small but pleasant streets.

The palm trees and flora choke the sidewalks on her road; the houses are set back on their properties even though they're pretty close to one another. It's hard to see the entrances to the homes, well anything really from the street due to the foliage, which is certainly not ideal. What I can see of the properties around show tiny houses, but they maintain that Key West charm, most having small front porches with wicker furniture and plantation-style window coverings.

Nearing her number, I'm definitely relieved to see she's not living in an apartment complex of crack heads or something equally appalling like a yurt. A small, cheery yellow house with wind chimes on the porch and a trellis of roses sits on the property, completely at odds with where I reside, which makes my insides get mopey.

I walk by a few times even though that's not a great idea, but since I have no car to stake her out from, my options are limited. There's a scooter parked by the front stairs, so I take that to mean she's home. Weighing my options, I try to decide on the best course of action. I could walk up, knock on the door, and demand she speak with me. Visions of beach-type decor like conch shells and seahorse bookends being flung at my head make me hesitate however, so I decide to survey her as well as I can from the plants crowding her lawn.

I feel like a tool squatting in the bushes, but I'm closer to the house here, and can definitely hear music inside coming from the open windows, so I lean forward to hear it better hoping to get a sense of what Bella's musical style might be now. She's always had a quirk to her tastes, even voting for our prom song to be "Teenage Lobotomy" by the Ramones in honor of the forced-upon ritual.

Straining to hear, my heart picks up the tune before my brain can connect, my pulse soaring as the notes of Sun Kil Moon's "Carry Me Ohio" lilts out of the windows, and suddenly I find myself uncharacteristically laid out on my side among dead palm fronds and God knows what else, in disbelief.

This can't be a coincidence. She can't still listen to that song without it meaning something to her. We listened to that on repeat - driving, talking, kissing, fucking.

It's all the confidence boost I need. I approach her door and watch a moment through the screen, but I don't see Bella in the rooms in front of me. Knocking on the frame, the door buckles and slaps against my fist. I could knock again, or I could just go in. It's technically not breaking and entering since her door is wide open (of course she wouldn't lock it), and I do know her, I reason.

Stepping across the threshold, instinct kicks in and I let my feet glide soundlessly into the room, sticking close to the wall. I make a mental note of the furnishings (cozy with a shabby chic feel), the layout (one long, open floor plan - noticeably renovated), and the pictures lining a low table against the wall (none of me but also no couple-y images of any other man… or woman either). It's a nice home even if it's tiny, and I wonder if Bella has another job besides bartending because Key West life is not cheap. I would know, I checked the real estate costs.

Listening for sounds of life and hearing none, I step towards the adjoining kitchen (no roosters in bonnets, thank God) and take note of the dishes in the sink. Skillet, one plate, one fork. My hand ghosts over the stove, still warm. There's movement out of the corner of my eye and I react quickly, my lightning fast reflexes allowing me to catch a hairbrush, its spiky points stabbing me in the hand.

"Ow! Can you do anything but throw things at me for just a second, please?"

"It's actually a great workout. I've missed it." She's gloriously damp, a towel wrapped around her breasts, and I have a mental vision of what they were like all those years ago. They still bulge over her towel invitingly. "You have no right to be standing in my kitchen, let alone alive and standing in my kitchen."

I tilt my head at her cute stubborn bear cub fury. "Oh, Bella. I think I have every right to be here." Walking to the dock on the kitchen counter, I smile (my best snarky but loveable one) and point at the iPhone. "How many times a day do you listen to this? Every morning while you shower? Every night as you hug your pillow to you wishing it was me?"

She moves closer, her scent filling my nostrils and making my mouth water. She still smells like a fucking bakery, and I want to eat her like a cronut. I didn't think she'd give in quite this easily, I'm actually a bit disappointed in her that she's caving so quickly, but I don't doubt my charm that still has obvious power over her.

Her hand moves to the counter next to me and I hear the unmistakable sound (well, unmistakable to me, at least) of a metal blade sliding out of wood. Automatically, I turn quickly and pin her arm against the granite, causing my body to hover over hers delightfully. "What do you think you're doing, Bella?" I can't help my eyes from skimming across her smooth collarbone and soaking up the sweet skin of her neck. A neck I want to bite and lick better.

There's momentary surprise on her face that I've trapped her so swiftly, but she recovers, staring at me through venomous, perfect brown eyes. "I was about to stab you."

My brows rise, along with other parts of me. I always loved her feistiness. "You're not a fan of blood, Bella. Never were." A certain accident with roller blades and her knee comes to mind, a hysterical trip to my bathroom to patch her up amusing to me now but also uncomfortably giving me pause that I'd forgotten that about her.

"I was going to make an exception for you, you know, seeing as how you broke into my home." As slight the action is, it doesn't escape me that she looks at my mouth, smiling down at her. Squirming, she tries to get up. "Let me go."

Resentfully, I remove my body from hers but not before taking the knife from her, what I now see is a meat cleaver (messy choice). She adjusts her towel as I slide the knife back in place, before folding my arms over my chest and leaning casually in front of the cupboards, blocking the weapons from her. "I missed breakfast?"

"You never ate breakfast."

"Coffee then, offer me some coffee."

"I have zero desire to do so." She backs away from me until she reaches the wall. It's distressing she seems so upset, but I can't leave yet.

"It's the polite thing to do."

"Polite? You want to talk polite all of a sudden? I think there's a Webster's over on the bookcase for you. Why don't you look up the definition while I go find a muumuu to put on?" She leaves quickly down the hallway and I fight the urge to follow her. Maybe I'm coming on too strong; I should back off a bit.

A bit.

I start looking for clues that there might be someone else in her life. The flowers on the end table don't indicate romance; it's just a simple tulip bouquet in an old white water pitcher. The place is a bit cluttered, but it seems to be all of Bella's things and if she were having a man over regularly, I'd assume she'd pick up a little. Remembering her childhood room, I change my mind on that assessment. She was never neat.

She has no jewelry on, and the towel she's wrapped in (lucky towel) is a bit threadbare. Surely if you were having company overnight you'd invest in a few good bath accessories. The refrigerator is filled with takeout containers, an expired bottle of mayo and a bottle of white wine (sub-par).

She's back quickly, in a long skirt and baggy t-shirt which makes me frown. "Edward, I'm expecting company, so I really have to cut this very unpleasant visit short." She starts walking towards the door, seemingly about to usher me out.

Instead, I walk to the couch and make myself comfortable, even though inside I'm nervous as hell, anticipating and dreading the talk that we need to have. "I don't think you are, actually."

Her eyebrows raise and she gives me a look like she can't believe my gall. "You cooked eggs this morning. The scent is still lingering in the air, not a pleasant smell, which means that if you were expecting someone you were interested in, you would've lit some candles or prepared yourself something sweeter, like waffles or apple cinnamon oatmeal." Two of her very favorite things.

Her mouth gapes but she doesn't dispute this, so I continue. "Also, there's a box of tampons prominently displayed on the kitchen counter. You were never shy about your bodily functions, Bella, but even you had limits." She wouldn't let me touch her when she was on her period, a very frustrating thing for me because I wanted her all the time and was above being icked out by it like a normal teenage boy.

I get up, walking to her slowly. I see her legs shift, one foot rubbing the other. A nervous habit I'm happy to still see is her 'tell'. My arms move slowly as to not scare her off, and one hand comes up to brace itself against the wall next to her head. Her breathing increases, I can see the fine hairs on her forehead begin to curl with the anxious heat she's exuding, and her eyes are dancing between mine apprehensively. But she doesn't move.

"Lastly, Bella, beautiful Bella. The song. You wouldn't be listening to our song if someone else were coming by. I know you, cupcake. That song means just too damn much to both of us." Our eyes are locked, her lips are kissable, and I let one shaky (but not to her unskilled eye) hand move up, allowing one finger to trail over her cheek like a feather. I'm trained to slow my breathing, to control my heart rate, but I've always been weak when it comes to her, and wonder if she can hear the panic and excitement in my chest like I can hear hers.

"Bella," I whisper, coaxing her to forgive me for things she shouldn't. For betraying and hurting her. But I'm too selfish a creature to leave her alone even though it's probably for the best.

My body is electrified when she says my name, the sweetest word coming out of her dreamy mouth. "Edward."

"Yes." I begin to lean in, overly excited at the prospect of feeling her again.

"Go fuck yourself." Her knee comes up right into the family jewels just as her words hit my ears, the double assault equally painful between my ego and my man parts. The strike is brutal enough that I fold over, onto the ground, grasping my injured cock and balls and writhing beneath her in a way I hadn't pictured last night when I was elbow deep in my Tahiti Island Dream lotion.

"I expected you to be angry but why would you even consider hurting a part of me you liked so much?" I gasp, managing to get on my knees, my breath heavy with a bit of drool leaking from the corner of my mouth.

She leans over me, her voice hot and loud in my ear. "Because I no longer have any use for those parts of your body, except to inflict harm. So if you wish to keep yourself intact, I suggest you leave Key West all together before that meat cleaver gets put to some real use."

"A meat cleaver really isn't the tool…"

"Edward, get out. Don't come back. I have no desire to see you, hear your excuses or otherwise engage with you in any way."

Lifting myself back on my feet, I smooth my shirt with my hands and replace the fedora on my head while reaching for the sunglasses I'd stashed in my breast pocket. "I guess that means you won't let me buy you dinner." She blinks, once, twice. "I really do want to explain myself to you, Bella. You deserve the truth, and I really don't think it's going to be anything you're expecting to hear. I think it's actually going to blow your mind." I may or may not remember that Bella loved it when her books took unusual twists, banking on the fact that she's now intrigued. Plus, the aroma she's giving off, the flutter of her chest and dazed look in her eyes suggests she may still have feelings for me. "Come on, for old times' sake." I make the smile that used to get her to forgive me when I was an ass as so many teenage boys are.

"Not on your life." Okay, so maybe that didn't work. On to plan B.

"If you don't, I'm going to sit on your porch every night and sing. Very loudly and off-key."

"I have window units. I'll crank them all. Problem solved."

Or C. "Okay then, if you don't give me just one chance to explain, you're going to wonder about this for the rest of your life. And I might not have seen you in a long time, but I remember enough to know that that is going to drive you more insane than my singing ever would."

I see it in her eyes when she realizes I'm right. "One drink. My choice, tonight. I'll leave directions at the hotel's front desk for you."

Shit. She'll use my real name, which I never use for hotels. "I'm uh, my travel agent made the arrangements; I'm registered under Rosalie Hale."

She shoots me a quirked brow but says nothing, pushing me out the screen door and I hear the heavy thud of the inner door closing behind me.

Smiling, I replace my sunglasses and step down to the cement walkway, albeit a bit gingerly. Triumphantly, I got her to agree to see me again, in public, which my aching junk thanks me for.

As I amble back to the hotel, my cocky smile turns into a very worrisome grimace, anxiety riddling my body and making me wish I had my Xanax in my pocket. I might've gotten Bella to hear me out, now I just have to hope that my very once open-minded childhood sweetheart doesn't run screaming when she learns what I've become.


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.