Chapter 8

Bella laughs as I pull out chairs, an umbrella, towels, and the cooler. "I don't remember you being this much of a planner. Is that one of your special powers?" I'm glad she's joking about what she seemed to have a hard time with last night, but it just makes me realize how I'm completely not flying under the radar here.

"Ah, no. I think that just came with age and added responsibility." Bella points to a spot under a palm tree that has good shade for me and a healthy dose of sun for her.

"So you do age, then?"

"Do I look older?"

"You haven't changed; you look as handsome as you ever were. Maybe more and that really pisses me off." I'm ecstatic from the compliment as she smiles at me and lays a towel on the sand.

"I age, but not as rapidly. Once I turn I'll stop all together. So it's like, reverse dog years. For every year you age, I age about two months."

"So if I'm 30, that means you've only aged enough to make you twenty?" she shrieks, loud enough that the people a few yards over turn to stare.

"Really only in looks. Mentally, I feel about a hundred and seven." I gesture for her to sit, and pull the cooler over between us. "Are you hungry? I had the hotel pack some food."

Bella is still sort of staring at me with a look of disgust on her face, but she sifts through the cooler and pulls out a chicken salad sandwich. "Cranberries."

"You still like those, right?"

"I do." She fingers the plastic wrap on the sandwich. "Edward, you're very overwhelming. But I suppose you always were." She nods her head yes when I pull out a beer and open it for her, then uncork a bottle of red for myself. "Isn't that chilled too much for you?"

"It'll be fine. I'll put it in the sun for a bit." Standing, I stick the bottle in the sand and begin to unbutton my shirt. I'm not consciously giving her a show on purpose (not that I'd admit it), but the look on Bella's face is slightly anticipatory, almost hungry as she's watching my fingers amble down my shirt front. "Do you have that sunblock for me?" Pulling the shirt off, I tuck it into the waistband of my shorts and stand before her waiting, hands on hips (and flexing, let's be honest).

"Um, yes." Scrambling in her bag for the lotion, she has the faintest blush rising up her chest through the V-neck of her t-shirt and for the first time, I have a strong urge to lick that collarbone, nip that flesh and bite into her muscle to see what she tastes like. If I ever get my hands on her again (which we both know I will), it's going to take everything in me not to sample her blood. Maybe she won't mind? It would be a first for both of us that we could share.

"Here, let me." She motions for me to turn and I feel the momentary chill of lotion on my back, then the warm, tentative fingers of her hand slowly rubbing the moisture in. I let her spread it all over, and when her hand reaches my shoulder, I grab it and turn, pressing it against my chest only to have her suck in a breath.

"Too much?" My voice is uncharacteristically nervous as I wait for her to pull away.

Her eyes reach mine and as clichéd as it sounds, electric vines rush through my body. It finally hits me that I'm standing here, with Bella, with the love of my life I thought I'd never have again. If I were capable of crying (another weird trait), I would.

Her hand flexes against me, like she's pushing and pulling my skin all at the same time, before she pulls away completely. "You're capable of doing your front."

"You always did my front."

"Well, you always were human. Things change. Now put it on or you'll regret it later." She plops down on her towel and shields her eyes from me behind big, black sunglasses. Well hell, she's not making this as easy as I'd hoped. "You know, you could've told me to bring a suit," she complains.

"Ah, but Bella, don't you realize I took you to one of the only nude beaches in the Keys?"

"This is Anne's Beach? Oh, hell no."

"You used to love being naked on the sand."

"I also used to love you, so again, things change." She smirks, so I let the dig slide. "Let's just keep our clothes on and enjoy the day, all right?"

"Whatever you want, Bella."

Forever.


We've spent a few lazy hours lying under the palm trees, Bella is tipsy from the beer so she's convinced me to slather on a new round of sunscreen and join her for a walk along the water's edge to sober up. The crowd has thinned a bit, except for a few hardcore, nude men that I'd actually prefer to see in the dreaded speedo.

The sand is white beneath our feet, the water bluer than anything I've ever seen, but all I see is Bella, her hair in a knot on her head and her nose starting to pink from the sun. This moment reminds me of us so long ago, walking along the water at La Push in silence after her mother died, me holding her tightly as she cried into my Metallica shirt. Even though it was my favorite, I didn't mind, because I loved her so much. The memory makes me reach for her hand instinctively, and I'm thrilled when she doesn't pull away, but entwines our fingers together.

Having her hand in mine is like the warmest sunny day, the most beautiful piece of music. It's putting on a favorite sweatshirt after you thought you'd lost it forever and find the fit is still perfect.

"You're awfully quiet," she says, giving my hand a little squeeze.

"I'm just relishing this moment with you. I… never dreamed I'd be holding your hand again. It's kind of taking my breath away." She hums, neither confirming nor denying it's the same for her. "So tell me a bit about what happened after I left. Not the 'you hate me' part or the 'you left me and all my dreams to die' part. Something a little less painful that brought you here."

She laughs and pulls the clip from her hair, making the strands sway and brush my shoulder. "Let's see. After a very unfortunate time in my life that I thought I'd never live through," she side-eyes me before continuing, the smile still on her face. "I gave fashion a try but quickly realized it wasn't for me. So no, you didn't take that away from me, if that's what you've been thinking."

Relief rolls in like the tide, but I wait for her to tell me more. "I didn't go to California, I just couldn't. So I went to New York, then Georgia, then I found Key West and I don't know, I never left. It felt good."

"It was different," I surmise.

She nods. "It was completely different. Warm, sunny, nothing reminded me of you, and I'm not saying that to stick a dagger in your heart or anything, but it's part of the story. So I came down here and got a job waitressing, then selling tourists booze cruise tickets, until I met Kate, the girl I work with at the bar. That's about it."

The image of Bella sticking a dagger in someone is sort of hot, but I keep it to myself. Today is going well, and that other hitman shoe is still hovering above, waiting to drop and flatten all of my newfound hopes to shit. "So you stayed and bought that house? That's quite an accomplishment."

"Part of the money my mother left me. It paid for my travels, got me here. I like bartending. I like meeting people that are passing through, everyone is usually in a good mood." Our hands move with her shrug. "I'm good at it."

"You are."

"You've watched me twice for about ten minutes each."

"Uh, not exactly." She stares at me. "If we're being honest with each other completely from here on out, I watched you for a while before I came to sit."

"That's creepy."

"I'm a creepy guy."

"You said it, not me." She turns us so we're headed back in the direction we came, and splashes me a bit with her foot.

"I don't like cold things, Bella." I growl, ready to pounce.

"The water is about eighty degrees, Edward." She starts backing up while I crouch down, ready to attack. "Don't you dare!"

It's a familiar warning, one she gave me every weekend at the beach. It's one I also always ignored. Lunging towards her, I grab her and lift her over my shoulder much like I did the night before, but this time she's squealing in delight and pounding on my back. I carry us further into the water and threaten to drop her, but she clings to me with her arms and legs and screams at me to not let her fall. She's laughing, I'm laughing, and it's just about the best moment I could've never planned.

I swing her around, the water kicking up and dousing us both, until she's laughing so hard she starts to hiccup, but I don't put her down. I carry her all the way back to our towels, and stand her upright, making sure she doesn't topple over dizzy. She's making that sound you make when you're coming down from a belly laugh in between hiccups which makes us both start to laugh again. Finally, she holds her breath and squeezes her eyes shut, repeating it a few times until her diaphragm stops its spasms.

"I haven't laughed that hard in a long time." She's wiping at her eyes with an occasional bubble of leftover giggling breaking free. "It feels good."

"It does," I agree, a stupid grin on my face and my cheeks hurt from so much mirth.

We stare at each other; Bella's breathing beginning to slow while mine has never really picked up. Another reminder that we're not the same Bella and Edward from that long lost eternity ago.

"Edward?"

"Yes?"

"I think I still haven't forgiven you."

"What can I do?"

"Keep trying."


With a weird sort of hug at her door, I tell Bella thanks for the lovely day and I'll see her soon, but make no immediate plan to see her again. Her eyebrows are knit together, but she nods her head and takes one last look at the bus before thanking me with a cute little smile.

I know she's confused, but I'm doing it on purpose. A seduction doesn't work if the other person realizes they're being seduced.

The last hurdle as I see it, because she's already falling for me again, is to tell her what I do for a living. There's really no easy way to say it or ease someone into understanding the artistry behind what I do, I can't exactly show her examples of my work like a painter can. All I can hope for is if she is willing to accept what I am, and so far she seems to, she'll accept how I make a living. Besides, Bella never was a die-hard liberal or anything, she believes in the death penalty and doesn't get off on hugging trees. Maybe she'll understand that some people have to die, especially the type I dispose of.

Speaking of work, after a shower (with Tahiti Island Dream body wash – again, reserve your judgement) I take Emmett's file out onto the balcony with a scotch from the mini-bar (sub-par brand, I must speak to the hotel staff) to see exactly what - or who - is so pressing that he decided I need to work on a vacation that he insisted upon.

The jet skiers and boaters are out again in full to catch the sunset, a beautiful mix of pinks, purples, and golds I've never witnessed before, and I wish I'd had the sense to take Bella out on the water to enjoy it with her. But she's working tonight which suits me just fine. A night spent watching Bella reach for beer and open bottles with the edge of her shirt is a night well spent, in my opinion.

Opening the file, there's the familiar packet Emmett always presents, clipped together and topped by a note:

Hello, Edward!

Rosalie and I hope you're having a great time on vacation, being mindful of the sun and not being a
complete douchebag to others vacationing around you. (Prick.)

I realize that it was Rosalie's and my idea to have you actually go on this vacation, so I'm sorry to have
to drop this in your lap, but it's an opportunity I think you'll agree cannot be passed up. Let's just say, this
job is one we've been waiting for, Jonah. He's our whale.
(I'm intrigued.)

No need to rush home after, as the next job won't be for a while and might require you to travel anyway,
so you might as well enjoy your time off until then. I'll send you some more sustenance, but in the meantime eat
some steak, drink some whiskey, and get laid, will ya? Rosalie stresses that last part.
(As any nympho would.)

Speaking of, we're having a grand ol' time down here in NOLA (knew it), and have not been arrested yet
for public indecency. You should visit once you become a Full - there's a great number of us here and it's
like a convention, but without the handouts and cheap buffet food.

Your favorite brother and sister-in-law (um….),

Emmett and Rosalie

P.S. Truly. Get laid.

I quickly ball up the note and set it on fire over the toilet (not because it's routine, but because I don't want to accidentally read about their adventures again), before returning to the packet. Pulling out a decent sized stack of paper, I begin reading about the mark Emmett was sure I'd be thrilled to interrupt my vacation for. In his defense, he probably thinks I'm bored silly as he has no idea that my plans included getting my old girlfriend back. I just hope that this won't take too much time away from wooing her. 'Hey Bella, care to accompany me on a stakeout? Mind any stray bullets that may come your way.' I doubt she would see that as a fun date.

Flipping through the pages, my adrenaline begins to surge once I realize what I'm looking at. With each new piece of information I find myself sitting up straighter, my whole body electrified. I can barely contain my excitement; I haven't been this ready for a hit in a long, long time.

Finally, after a year of aggravation, Emmett has found the thorn in my side.

Rivalries are rare in my line of work, there are enough people willing to pay a professional to kill those that have wronged them that there isn't much overlap or stealing of clients. However, there's one man that is the Moriarty to my Holmes, the Voldemort to my Potter, the Kanye to my Swift. A man that gets hired almost as much as I do, and as we all know, that gives a blow to my ego.

Emmett has finally found me The Jazzman (puh-lease. Only a tool would have a nickname, I bet he gave it to himself).

With shaking hands filled with anticipation, I flip to the page that holds his picture and close my eyes to savor the moment. After taking a ritualistic deep breath to let the feeling linger as long as possible, I feast my eyes on the man that stole that Colombian drug lord out from under me in a blatant explosion (a ridiculous act of nonprofessional showboating), the man that got the much coveted Chinese mob boss job (big money), and the man that's been attempting to lower my numbers for the better part of the last year.

And all I can think is: you gotta be fucking kidding me.

He's right there in picture after picture - exiting a car, entering a building, and buying a falafel from a street vendor. My damn rival is none other than the kissing bandit I've been watching make disgusting public displays with his woman for the better part of three days.

This is the hotshot killer encroaching on my territory? The blond guy with a dated perm who wears pukka beads and Hawaiian shirts while he eats the face off of his companion? I pause, momentarily distracted by that. Either the bane of my existence is enjoying a personal life (which part of me wants to question him about before I kill him), or he's on a job and using a prop to get the work done which would cement the fact that he's an amateur.

What's really intriguing though is who exactly is ordering this hit? Emmett would never seek out this job on his own to make me happy, especially while he's enjoying Rosalie's nether-regions (shudder), so it has to be someone with enough balls to want to hit a hitman.

I quickly look at the price on his head and my eyebrows fly up into my hairline. Damn. Someone wants this kid dead in a very expensive way. Like double up the amount of bullets or get a bigger knife kind of way.

Scanning the rest of the info, I'm not surprised that it lists his home state as Washington, something I assumed from the amount of work he's tried to take from me. It could only mean he was close by and networking with the same clientele, which is even more reason I need him gone.

The room is registered under the name Alice Whitlock, presumably the female he's with. The second name tied to the room is… oh you've got to be kidding me. Vincent Vega. The hitman made famous by John Travolta (sad, what's happened to his hair). As ridiculous as that is, at least it cements the fact that this guy is an idiot and worthy of killing for that stupidity alone.

This embarrassment to the art of the hired killer has no idea how easy he's made this job for me. I'm almost upset at how quickly this is going to go, but then again, this won't take any time from romancing Bella at all. To be considerate of her job, I'll make sure I don't do it on hotel property. Although perhaps a murder would garner the hotel closed, giving her a few days off, no?


Finding out what room Mr. Idiot is in doesn't take any effort at all, but I'm more than a little perturbed to find that he's in the room directly below me. I think back to my conversations with Bella on the patio and realize the one that was most revealing was just last night, after I had witnessed him and his skank at the bar. Hopefully he stayed there well past when Bella left. I hadn't heard anyone entering the room below while we were talking, and I should trust my half-vamp hearing, but I mentally scold myself to be more careful.

I frown, wondering if I really can mix Bella and my occupation. I've already slipped up a number of times with my golden rule of staying inconspicuous, a problem that I must correct, especially now that I know he's here. I have two advantages, as I see it. One, I know who he is, and two; he seems to be more preoccupied than I am if the hickies I saw on his lady friend's neck are any indication.

Ringing his room, there's no answer so I take the bag of goodies Emmett sent with the packet and O positive bag of deliciousness, and fish out my best, inconspicuous telescopic camera. Just because he didn't answer doesn't mean he's not in there giving it to that woman good, something I'd probably find enjoyable spying on if it was anyone else but this doofus.

Sliding the balcony door open slowly and quietly, I step carefully out onto the cement so as not to make any noise and head to the glass partition. Sitting on the floor, I fish the tiny camera down through the inch-wide opening towards his balcony, using the remote switches to angle the flexible gooseneck as I watch on the screen attached. I'm careful to stay on the side and along the underneath of my own, staying out of eyesight should anyone be there. The camera shows no movement on the deck, so I move it further to see through the wide open sliding door. I know I've let Bella distract me, but this guy is as bad a hitman as I believe because he truly doesn't remember the most important golden rule: you're a hitman 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year.

That means closing your fucking doors, jerkoff.

The camera shows no one in the room, and the bathroom door is open, revealing it to be empty as well. Pulling up my equipment, I change into one of the ridiculous flowered shirts the salesgirl talked me into and slip on my swimsuit, fedora and sunglasses. Using the hotel's welcoming gift bag (sunset themed, how original), I place some surveillance equipment under a towel and stuff two latex gloves in my pocket before making my way out of my room and towards the staircase that will bring me to the moron's floor.

Slipping a five into the vending machine at the end of the hall, I take my time selecting a beverage I won't drink and observe the lay of the land for a few moments. The hall is empty, no noticeable sounds or people moving about, so I head to his door and press my ear against it. There's no noise from within, and a knock confirms it is still empty.

Putting on the gloves and making quick work of the digital lock's bypass mechanism under the housing unit (you wouldn't believe how easy this is with a few wires and a small circuit board hidden in an empty marker casing - YouTube it), I enter and close the door like a shadow. Remaining pressed up against it; I survey the room quickly and start gathering evidence about my mark. The most obvious of all is that he's a complete and utter slob. Another reason to off the guy as he's giving the whole profession a bad name. Pulling out my infrared detector and radio receiver, the room shows no sign of bugs or cameras in the room.

Stepping lightly and avoiding the clothes (oh God, is that a used condom?) strewn on the floor, I glance across the dresser top and desk, seeing only what appears to be feminine articles, clearly his companion's items, but I pick up the curling iron, Hello Kitty! makeup brush kit and an eyelash curler to see if they could be hidden weapons such as I have, but they're clean. I open every drawer; go through every article in the closet and rifle through the nightstands, finding nothing. After a bathroom search, I stand and close my eyes, imagining my target and what I know about him (regrettably little). Images and ideas swirl through my mind before I scan the room and focus in on the painting hanging over the minibar - an unmistakable (to me, because I'm a brilliant spy) print of the Hawaiian Islands.

Apparently I do not have the same decorator as my hotel mate, a decorator who seems to feel that the Keys are not the way to embellish the walls of a hotel located in the Keys. Plus, there is no picture over my minibar. Out of my tacky tourist bag I grab my laser illuminator which can tell me if an object is loaded with a trip wire and I'm about to be blown to bits.

With no indication that the picture is rigged, I pull it away from the wall slowly and peer behind it, only to see a gaping hole. Shaking my head, I remove the picture revealing that this asshole actually cut a hidey hole into the fucking drywall. If you're a hitman that can't figure out where to stash your shit without leaving a trace, you really should rethink your career path.

Inside, are very rudimentary weapons - a handgun, silencer, and a knife. That's it. There's always the chance he has a weapon on him, but considering what he's been wearing there isn't much room for anything unless you're super creative (like me) and your cell phone case is also a poisonous dart gun while your sunglasses hold a camera and rearview mirror.

Putting the picture back, I toy with the idea of leaving a rude note about the destruction but think better of it to protect the maid he'd surely blame. Quickly moving throughout the room, I place four pinhole cameras behind objects he should have no business with - the smoke detector, outside wall lamp, the top of the bathroom mirror, and the door hinge. Four different angles I'll be able to monitor not twelve feet above him. Even though I doubt he'd be able to find them on his own, I make sure to use my undetectable equipment specially designed for me by Emmett's friend at the CIA (terrible gambling debts with the mob, I helped him solve the issue).

With one last sweep of the room to make sure I left no evidence, I listen for noise outside in the hallway. Giggling followed by a squeal tells me it's most likely my couple, so I head back out onto the balcony and climb onto the glass rail. Reaching above me for the gap under my own, I pull myself up and scramble quickly so that I'm standing on the outside of my ledge and go no further because his lover (awful word) has just come out the door onto their own deck and I don't want her to hear me. A swift check of my surroundings tells me there's no one in a position to see me, so after a few moments of her putting her damp suit on the railing to dry, I'm able to climb over onto my balcony (that was fun).

Opening my laptop, I log on and see my placement was successful (like there was any doubt) and I can see and hear everything going on below me.

Forty five minutes later, after one blow job, a shower, maid service (thank God and poor woman) and a cigarette break, the couple change into slightly more formal attire. The chit chat has been basic, the perfunctory vacation talk and some vulgar sex replay, before discussions begin about where to dine for the evening. On their way out the door, lamebrain doesn't even look at the Hawaii picture, let alone touch it, so it appears that he is in full-on vacation mode. A luxury I've never afforded myself and I feel a bit jealous that he's able to turn his life on a dime from one factor to another. Is it just me that thought this whole time I needed to embrace the hitman lifestyle and that's it? Or is it because of what I am that I take it so seriously? I hate to admit it, but he seems awfully happy, something I haven't been in a long time. Until now.

Will I ever be able to just change modes on and off at whim? Could I ever take Bella away on a nice trip and not be the hired killer that lives inside and clings to every atom of what I am? Closing the laptop a little harder than necessary, I stew a bit before deciding that if this nincompoop can do it, so can I.

I am Edward Cullen, Dhampir Assassin, for Christ's sake. I can do anything.


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.