Chapter Two

Blood Lips

In one sweeping motion, he pushed the bedroom door off its hinges, black pooling in the depths of his eyes as he made his way down the curled staircase. There were pictures on the wall beside him, but he barely stopped to acknowledge them. One was of a man, similar to him, with a large deep scar across his cheek. His expression was different though, and his eyes were filled with a brightness that he, himself couldn't relate to.

Without a second thought, he tore the picture off the wall and crushed the glass beneath his fingertips. A thin trail of blood ran down his hand and then onto his wrist, leaving a cruel red path across his skin.

Once again, he barely even stopped. A flicker of a glance down towards where the shards of glass had pieced his skin... but that was all. Nothing more. No concern, or attempt to wipe away the mark.

He left the blood dripping from his fingertips.

The front door lay wide open, and as he stumbled past the faded welcome mat and onto the deserted street, his thoughts changed, finally finding some clarity amongst the confusion.

They focused on one thing, one person, one woman – one thing to be desired, but never taken; the forbidden fruit. Almost instinctively, his hands reached out in front of him, like he was moving forward to touch her brown hair... envisioning her in front of him.

How his fingertips would pull through each single strand as it rippled over his skin, warm to the touch. He'd push back the hair from her eyes, revealing two brown orbs, daring, tempting and persuasive.

As his eyes closed, focusing solely on the image of the woman, he froze on the pavement, bowing his head slightly. She was perfect; pure white teeth that pull back over blood red lips – a pale, flawless neck that follows gracefully into the rest of her torso – long, slender legs to wrap around his waist, leaving no air between the two of them.

He ran his tongue over his dry lips, tearing himself reluctantly away from the image he craved. Subconsciously, he began to put one foot in front of the other, repeating the pattern until he'd picked up a pace.

He didn't know where he was going – how could he? The former part of his mind, the one that no longer held any control, lay silent within his thoughts; dormant, almost.

He could still sense it – like a weight that refused to move, a ship with an anchor, a kite still clutched by a piece of string.

Anthony Masen was the anchor – the one voice that grounded him to reality, even if it were only by a fragile, breaking chain.

And the man resented him for it.

Across the road, a small cluster of women stumbled down the pavement, their eyes bloodshot and tired – and yet, still clouded by a haze of lust, marred with alcohol from earlier in the night. They were laughing.

The comforting silence that had once filled the street now shattered at the sound, and his skin prickled in annoyance, his jaw hardening ever so slightly. He wanted them to stop.

Without stopping to contemplate his actions, he crossed the street so that they were directly opposite him. Five females, he counted quickly. Each dangerously intoxicated, and each with darkly painted lips that rose and fell every time they laughed.

As they approached him, one timidly raised their gaze towards him, her eyes curious and searching. He stared directly back at her, leaving no room to escape. The differences were subtle, but he wasn't one to miss the finer details. He could see the way her chest began to rise a little quicker, her eyes became wider – frightened almost – and yet still too compelled to look away.

Their laughter died down suddenly.

One female whispered for her to look away. Another tugged quickly on her arm, before finally the third pushed her further into the group, hiding her from his sight.

"Hello ladies."

From the group, he heard a quiet, restrained whimper, and he could only assume that it came from the one woman whose gaze he'd held. She had dark brown hair, almost black in colour and from the glimpse he'd had of her – she was most definitely attractive.

Useable would have been a more appropriate word.

None of them spoke. If anything, they only moved further away from him, their faces paling as he came ever closer. Soon, he was barely metres away from the group.

"Your friend wouldn't need a lift home – would she?" he asked quietly, his voice deliciously gentle. He heard her footsteps falter against the cement pavement, and the image of her pulsating heart quickening in its pace made a content, satisfied smirk spread across his face.

The first in the group pushed past him, her shoulder kept away from his to avoid touching him. Her eyes focused on the floor in front of her, and he could see a small bead of sweat falling down her flushed cheek. She was ginger, a wild red head, and he could only guess that her spirit was the same.

If she hadn't been with the others, she would have been a fun catch.

"I don't mean to ask twice, but I have places to go, and if you really aren't interested..." he trailed off slyly, and before he could take another step towards the group, the red head turned to him, eyes fierce and intense.

"Piss off back to the hell hole you came from."

His smirk only grew bigger, and he appraised her with a new look in his eyes, one different from the usual coldness that dominated his expression. It oozed danger. "Feisty – I like that."

Her jaw hardened, and tightening her grip on her friends' hands, she pulled herself past the man, her eyes never once glancing towards him. As they passed his cloaked figure, he turned to watch them stumble down the street, regret churning in his stomach at not reaching out to one of them.

He wouldn't forget the red head.

As they finally disappeared around the corner, he pushed himself to keep walking again, and a single curse passed his lips at allowing himself to be distracted by females that would get him nowhere.

It was cold – a sudden, errant thought swept through his mind – just like the bitter wind that had descended upon Phoenix. He had a thin grey hooded jacket on, the pockets deep and empty. With pale hands, he pulled the collar up so that it covered his chin.

As he glanced down the street again, gathering his bearings in a brief moment, he spotted a single, distinctive building beside the crossroads. Smoke pushed out of the chimney and into the coal black night sky – and at that single image, it jogged his blurred memory.

Ragged breathing cut through the ghostly silence. A woman, lying inches away from him, legs bare, and hair spread out across a wooden floor. A scream.

Then... nothing. Silence flooded in once more.

A smile twisted onto his darkened lips. The door of the building was open, lying loose on its hinges as he stepped over the doorstep, his heel sounding a metallic click against the broken tiles. Bottles were scatted across empty tables, and his hand closed around one drink, liquid still sloshing in the bottom of the glass as he raised it to his chapped lips.

Before he could take a sip, a voice, quiet, deadly and forced spoke to him across the seemingly deserted room.

"Get the fuck out of here."

His muscles locked, and a burning sensation rushed to his fingertips, itching for a fight. In one motion, his fist closed around the glass in his hands, and he shattered it beneath his palm.

As he raised his eyes, dropping the broken glass slowly to the floor, he saw McCarty standing opposite him.

He pursed his lips. "Not quite the welcome I was expecting."

McCarty closed the distance between them in a second, and his hand went straight to the man's neck. His hand tightened, his fingers flexing before pressing deep into his neck as he threw him into the wall. The man didn't dare try to fight. He focused on trying to breathe, trying to loosen the grip slightly. There were many ways he could die, but by McCarty's hands certainly wasn't going to be one of them.

"You fucking killed her," he spat, his voice seething as his hands moved away from the man's neck, and instead to the collar of his jacket. He took a breath gratefully, but before he could compose himself, McCarty threw him back against the wall. "You fucking killed her!"

Their faces were inches away from each other.

He should have been afraid. But the man felt nothing. He only raised one eyebrow coldly. "I didn't realise she meant so much to you."

Spit bubbled against McCarty's lips, and he knew in that moment he couldn't hide from what was about to happen. McCarty's fist hit him squarely in the jaw, and he crumpled against the wall, his body unable to hold himself up any longer.

"You paid me for one thing and one thing only." McCarty said quietly – his breathing heavy and laboured. "And for you to take pleasure in killing her... it's sick."

The man didn't even try to correct him.

Using her – for her body – had its own satisfying qualities. He could remember what it felt like, the power that rushed through him as he lay above her, the trembling body beneath him weak, fragile, and completely helpless. He could even remember the sudden, triumphant sensation that filled him as she pushed herself towards him, unable to deny her own desire.

But killing her... feeling the frightened whimper vibrate in the core of her chest as his movements became rougher, his hands became more demanding, his teeth bit instead of kissed... that had been far more gratifying.

"I am trying very hard not to kill you right now," McCarty's voice was stiff and wooden, like he was forcing himself not to lash out.

He didn't need another motivation, and he pushed himself up from the floor, before stumbling towards the open doorway. McCarty stood, emotionless in the middle of the room, his fists curled dangerously by his sides.

As the man staggered onto the street, he never looked back.

There was only so long that McCarty could control his temper, and he wasn't about to wait and find out just how long that would last. For a moment, a strange feeling ran through the man – one that he wasn't familiar with. He frowned in confusion as an emotion began to fill him, because for a reason that was beyond him, he had found some compassion for McCarty. He felt sorry for him.

Not because he no longer had a woman to satisfy his own needs, or sell on to more willing customers, but because McCarty was weak. He'd allowed himself to become attached to another life... one that was fragile and so easily broken.

He had allowed himself to love.

A sickening feeling rose inside of him at the thought, and the compassion was immediately replaced by revulsion. Love made a man weak... it destroyed him.

Humans were never made to rely on someone else – least of all, a woman.

His chest contracted at the thought, at the glimmer of a memory flashing through his mind, and in a blinded haze, he fumbled in the pockets of the grey jacket before taking out a cigarette and a lighter. Breathless and agitated, he pushed the cigarette through his lips, and then flicked the switch on the lighter.

The flame caught the side of his face.

Taking a sudden step back, he cursed at the sidewalk, his fingers pressing into the heated indentation of his cheek. The cigarette almost fell from his lips, and he bit down hard, his determination restored, as he flicked the switch once more, the flames kept away from his face.

The burning, itching sensation still remained, and he exhaled angrily, the smoke clouding his vision. The fumes did little to relax him – as he would have hoped. But they served the purpose; not just as a distraction... they helped him to forget.

He inhaled one last time, before throwing the barely used cigarette into the gutter. To anyone else, it seemed a waste. To him however, discarding something that was unfinished... discarding something untouched... created a comforting, almost smug feeling in the pit of his stomach.

As the cold wind pulled through the empty street again, he hugged the grey hooded jacket tighter around him. The image of the liquid in the bottom of the glass that he'd so easily broken with his fingers sprung into his mind, and he wished he'd drunk it. The harsh, pleasing sensation of the liquor burning down his throat would have helped to warm him inside.

Instead, he was forced to bare the cold – and however much he would have liked to say he was alone, he knew in all truthfulness that he wasn't. Anthony Masen was still here – and he didn't have a fucking clue how to get rid of him.

Although he hated the label, he was a desperate man. There was a void beyond Anthony Masen, the one that contained his memories, his life, his fears, his dreams – and it was a void that was lost to Edward Cullen. But no matter how hard he tried, no matter how many nights he spent such as these deluding himself into the possibility that Anthony Masen may too one day fall into that void, he knew that it was hopeless.

Anthony Masen's presence was just as strong in the back of his mind as it had been ten years ago.

He breathed out an angered sigh as his breath unfurled before him. He should have taken the red head whilst he had the chance. Home wasn't far off – or at least, Masen's house wasn't. He could never describe it as his. He didn't have a home.

As he saw the familiar stone steps of Anthony Masen's driveway come into view, a light to the right made him pause for a moment.

The house next to Anthony Masen's was similar in its shape, except for the blood red flowers now scattered across the window sills. They didn't appear to be in any sort of order. A frown appeared on his face as the light in the front room, that blinding, ethereal light became blocked out.

But not because it had been turned off.

Standing in the front room of the house next to Anthony Masen was a figure, and one that looked very feminine. Aided by the light, his eyes roamed over every curve and arc of her figure, highlighted in her darkened shadow.

He wanted that.

His eyes became focused and determined, and almost detached from reality. His thoughts were no longer consumed by his resentment for Anthony Masen, but the shadowed figure.

Then, he put one foot in front of him, and began to turn towards her house.

Get the fuck away from her.

The five single words froze Edward Cullen down to the core. Not because of the venom behind them, or the force at which it locked his muscles, but simply because that voice never spoke. Anthony Masen stayed silent.

Up until now.

"You don't own me," Edward Cullen spat into the wind, and he freed his stiff fingers to take another step towards the house. The figure was still in the window. The light was still there.

Stop.

Just that one word... that one simple fucking word and he couldn't move. Hell, he could even breathe. The two competing individuals, each fighting for dominance within one mind had left him immobile.

Go home Cullen. Anthony Masen addressed him this time. She will never be yours.

Edward Cullen scrunched his eyes tightly together, feeling the burn on his cheek ache with the gesture. "She'll never be yours Masen, that's what you fucking mean." He cursed under his breath again, struggling with the effort of keeping himself breathing, let alone trying to move again.

Go home.

Edward Cullen cursed again. With Anthony Masen's presence in his mind, he could barely even think properly – and the realisation quickly set in that no matter how prominent his desire for her was, he couldn't have her tonight.

He was going to have to fucking obey Masen.

Edward Cullen cursed one last time, before turning back towards Masen's stoned driveway, and his chest filled quickly with oxygen as the fight broke between the two individuals - finally allowing him the air to breathe. His eyebrows furrowed and deep creases appeared on his forehead. The problem of Anthony Masen was getting worse.

As he reached the front door of the house and made to slot the key into the lock, the sound of high heels clicking against a pavement reached his ears. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw a blonde, petite woman crossing the road. Her expression was cautious, her face hidden in the neck of his jacket.

If he'd have bothered to look closer, he would have realised that he recognised her from somewhere. But the familiar desire consumed him in barely seconds.

Not even the other part of him, the one with morals, could stop him from taking a step towards her.

AN - Thank you for the support I received with the voting, and thanks to everyone who did vote, this story came second! *victory dance*, woooop! First place went to the lovely Zombie's Run This Town, so if you have a spare moment, I'd suggest going over to her page and checking out her entry.

Hopefully you're not too freaked out by the allusive Edward Cullen, and that you're beginning to understand the weird ways in which his mind words. I'd just like to point out that I DON'T share his views... I just like having fun writing them. :P

Reviews = Cookies