Disclaimer: All publicly recognized characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Author's Note: As I've mentioned, this chapter will also be more dialogue. I want y'all to see the dynamic between Bella and Randall. Hopefully, I'm succeeding! Again, thank you for the reviews, favorites, and follows. I received some great feedback! I hope everyone enjoys this next chapter! Happy reading! (Also, there is another foot note.)

The Soldier
Chapter Eight: "The Journalist"

Truths strengthened the couple's bond. As they cleaned the bungalow, each shared pieces of their history. Randall provided more information. Having been turned in the sixties, a majority of his memories were finely tuned. Bella learned that he'd been a musician prior to damnation. A Russian vampire, Boris, stole his life at the age of twenty-one. Her mate described him as a jovial man, a human enthusiast. However, Randall abhorred his company. The European lived as a constant reminder of his death. After three years, the Californian returned west, deciding to readapt into civilization. Once he settled, Randall used his knowledge of music to become a journalist. Now, he was a sought after commodity, a mystery to industry – Randall Wilkes, a Rolling Stone.

The property displayed his passion for music. In every room, concert posters hung on the walls. Each piece was one of a kind, purchased at shows. Instruments casually leaned on certain surfaces. Framed magazine covers lined the hallway; hundreds of articles pressed between glass. Randall promised to create a space for her, but Bella denied him. The bungalow felt like home despite the splintered mess. "We'll buy furniture together," was her promise. They'd combined their tastes with the largest pieces. The soldier refused to store her mate's accomplishments. All she needed was a dresser drawer.

"What about the boxes," he asked.

The three packages lingered by the front door. As they'd dumped the debris in a rented dumpster, the brown boxes taunted her. Now, that the house was somewhat bare, their presence became painfully obvious. Bella sighed, ripping one open. Sweet grass and clover wafted into the air – Jasper. The soldier dumped the contents onto the hardwood floors. A pair of black cowboy boots greeted her, accompanied by a four-pack of wife beaters and a six sets of wool socks. The immortal hugged the leather footwear, soaking in the southern aroma. She had never been materialistic, but Bella loved the Justins.

"Open the others," Randall pressed. "You're making me jealous over a pair of boots."

Bella chuckled, releasing the ebony beauties. She moved onto the second box, another treat from Jasper. It contained two pairs of jeans, a mirrored pair of Ray Ban aviators, and a collection of classical books. The soldier examined each item closely. She marveled at the effort placed with each purchase. Jasper Whitlock understood her character; he bought things that she wouldn't discard. The immortal's appreciation doubled for her family member. She needed to thank him.

The third box smelled of Sweet Tarts. Bella knew the abomination came from Alice Cullen. Like the others, she dumped the contents onto the ground. No surprise, a cell-phone resided in the parcel. The soldier crushed the packaging before the device could mutter a sound. The other items were a Marc Jacobs shoulder bag, an Apple laptop, and a silver Rolex watch. Thousands of dollars spent on four items. Being spiteful, Bella wanted to smash the gifts. However, it seemed wasteful to toss them into the trash. Eventually, she'd have to buy a purse and a computer. Alice, the meddlesome bitch, beat her to it. Luckily, the gifts didn't scream wealth; they were simply designed. Even the watch looked casual.

The journalist whistled, "She sure knows how to spend money."

"Alice is a snob," Bella explained. "I'm surprised she didn't send a mountain of designer clothes. However, I'm sure that's Jasper's doing. I'm pretty basic. It doesn't make sense to spend a small fortune on clothes. They'll end up being bloody and torn."

"Speak for yourself. Humans don't fight like mountain lions. I could go hunting in a white suit – no blood spilt."

"Ha, ha," she deadpanned.

"I'm just teasing you. You're goddamn sexy when you hunt."

The soldier smiled. Their dietary differences hadn't become problematic. Randall hunted alone in the city, while she sampled the surrounding wildlife. Once, her mate accompanied her to Topanga State Park. She had sacked a formidable feline. Upon watching the feat, the journalist pounced on her. They fucked in the woods, decimating several trees. The carnal act relinquished any doubts regarding vegetarianism. Randall coined the nickname Trapper.

"You know, we probably should get you a phone," the journalist advised, looking at the flattened cellular box. "When we're separated, I wouldn't worry so much. Plus, you mentioned wanting to go to Washington. It'd be wise to have another form of communication if we decide to travel."

"About that," Bella sighed. "I need explain why."

"Shoot."

"My father lives in Forks, Washington. Since awakening, I've been wanting to meet him. It's been my main objective for years. No doubt, the government reported my death. He has no reason to believe that I'm alive; it's been over two years. However, I want him to know me – to see me with his eyes. It's completely selfish, but I need to do it."

"It's against our laws to expose ourselves to humans, Bella."

"I know," she exhaled. "A part of me is hoping that he won't ask; he'll just accept the strange circumstances. After all, he hangs out with werewolves. If Charlie can be friends with them, why wouldn't he accept me?"

"Werewolves? Jesus Christ," Randall swore.

"Yeah, Jacob Black is one of them. I vaguely remember us being friends. Peter says that I lost my virginity to him. I'm hoping that our history will allow me to visit my dad. Otherwise, I might have to fight a pack of mutts."

Her mate began pacing the empty den, pale fingers clutching his chocolate colored pompadour. "So, let me get this straight. You want to invade wolves' territory, announce yourself to a human, and possibly battle said pack of werewolves?"

"In a nutshell."

Randall ceased movement; his brow furrowed in frustration. "I can't talk you out of this," he asked. "I just got you, Trapper. I can't imagine anything bad happening to you. You are my life. I love the shit out of you."

"Nothing will happen to me," Bella promised. "I am a soldier, a Whitlock. I am very capable of protecting myself. And, I don't ever want to be apart from you. I love you too much. No one, not even a werewolf, will separate us."

The journalist plopped beside her on the floor. He grabbed her neck, pulling them into a searing kiss. Their connection removed the fear; Bella purred in contentment. She would never foolishly risk their love. Randall meant more than anything to her. However, the vampire knew how fleeting life was for mortals. She needed to reconnect with the police officer before death claimed him. If she didn't complete her goal, regret would become an eternal companion. Hopefully, her mate would understand.

As if reading her mind, Randall asked, "When do we leave?" Promptly, Bella pushed him onto the hardwood floors, ripping-off his slacks.

Foot Note: Boris is an actual vampire within Twilight fandom. Ironically, he created Laurent. I wanted Randall to have a tangible maker. Out of all the nomads, I figured Boris would be the most likely to turn the musician.