Hi! I'm hoping this counts as a big thanks and a reply to all of you who read the first chapter. I was dared to post chapter 2 (hello, Compass54), and I caved. I won't be so easy next time, but I figured I owed you more words than ~1K to start out. I also enjoy the hell out of reading the comments, so I'm being a little selfish, too.

Many thanks to Sarcastic Bimbo for beta duties. She also makes me laugh.

CHAPTER TWO — BELLA

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"The fuck? Are you kidding? You'd better be kidding." Edward's voice literally pierces my eardrum—it's that loud. I pull the heavy, dirty receiver away from my ear.

Shit. I knew he'd be pissed, but he's my only option. He won't be anywhere near as mad as Emmett or my father; at least, I hope he won't.

He's probably the only person I can count on not to tell Dad. Well, the only person who can afford it. Angela will keep my secrets to the grave, but she can't afford bail fees any more than I can, not on our meager grad school budgets. Edward's initial reaction aside, I know he'll come through. Getting out of here is definitely worth the teasing I'll be in for once he helps me out of this mess.

I bring the phone back to my ear and say through clenched teeth, "No, I am not kidding. Do you know what happens to girls like me in jail? My sweet virgin ass is at stake here!"

Apparently the thought of my impending doom amuses him, since he laughs his ass off. I wish I could reach through this ugly jail phone and beat him with it. I try to ignore the tiny little part of me that loves to hear him laugh. The part which still gets butterflies every single time we interact. I'm completely over the girlish crush I had on my brother's best friend. Totally.

"Glad to know you find this so funny." Ugh. I'll never live this down.

"Your 'virgin ass' is funny. You being incarcerated, however, isn't. How the hell did you end up in jail?"

I can still hear the amusement in that smooth, deep voice of his. It shouldn't be attractive, because he's definitely not laughing with me—but I find it maddeningly so. It also makes me question my judgement; now, and for the last ten‒plus years. Why it takes my reaction to Edward to realize this instead of my current surroundings, I haven't a clue. See above, re: judgement skills.

"Tell you what—you come and get me, and then I'll tell you the whole story." I'm not at all eager to recount the humiliating series of events which led to my arrest, but if it gets me out of this place and home, I'll spill the details. I don't exactly have the money for an Uber at the moment.

"Hmm, I don't know … how can I be sure they're not letting a menace back out on the streets? Were you trespassing? Tagging freight cars in the rail yard? No, I've got it—you were jaywalking!"

This time I'm pretty sure the guards can hear him laughing at me. I grit my teeth and swallow back all the insults I want to hurl at him. Over the years, I've used just about every derogatory comment in the book when it comes to Edward and my brother. They made pissing me off a professional sport for the majority of my life. But while Emmett simply makes me want to just smack him, I want to smack Edward … and then kiss him. The sad part is, no matter how much I want it to, a kiss will never happen.

He doesn't see me that way. Never has. Never will.

"Wrap it up, Miss Swan," the supervising deputy calls, pointing to her watch.

I start to panic. "C'mon, Edward. I really need your help, here."

No response, just more laughing. Prick.

Sighing in irritation, I growl, "Look, can you come get me or not?" Doesn't he realize I used my one phone call on him? Surely it's obvious.

"Can you give me half an hour? Oh, wait—you're not going anywhere," he quips, but if he laughs at his own dumb joke this time, I can't hear it.

I scowl, wishing my death glare could travel over the airwaves to smack Edward right in his stupid forehead. "Funny."

"I'll see you in half an hour. Are you in King County?"

There's more than one? Since he's right, and I don't care to know how many other jails in which I could possibly land myself, I answer, "Yeah, King County."

"Okay. Sit tight." His smug laugh is cut off when the connection goes dead.

Thank God, I'm finally getting out of here. A traitorous little thrill curls in my stomach at the thought of seeing Edward, embarrassing as the circumstances might be.

As the guard escorts me back to the holding area, I glance around the room: the bank of payphones, the chipped, high-gloss-painted cinderblock walls, and the plastic chairs pre-equipped with slots in the back to make room for the handcuffs. It's all so surreal, mostly because I can't remember the last time I saw a payphone. Do they even exist outside of jail these days? I snort at my train of thought. King County Jail—the last bastion of the pay phone.

Gotta entertain myself somehow. At least I can laugh about it.

I doubt Charlie would say the same. I have a strong suspicion all dads would flip out when their precious baby daughters end up in jail; as a cop, my father's reaction would be even worse. But he's never gonna know.

I will remove Edward's balls with a spork if he spills. I'll be sad about damaging what I'm sure are superior goods, but I won't let mere feelings stop me.

"It's time to go, Miss Swan," one of the ever-changing deputies calls.

I spring up off the section of hard metal bench I've called home for the last twelve-plus hours, ready to get the hell out of Dodge. I try not to flat out run out of the community holding cell, but I can't help myself. No one says goodbye, but I don't give a shit. I'm out of here, and they're not. I did my time; kept my head down and my mouth shut.

Wow. I watch too many cop shows.

I follow the deputy down enough hallways to get me thoroughly lost before stopping at a desk, where she chats with another woman in a matching uniform. I fidget while they talk, anxiously looking toward the door, where I see a tiny slice of daylight peeking through. I turn toward it like a plant seeking sunlight; I want out of here, like yesterday.

After they're done with their small talk, my keeper turns to me. "It was a pleasure having you, Miss Swan." With a wry smile, the deputy—S. Cope, according to her name tag—hands me a large plastic bag containing my keys, purse and phone. "Hope you won't be joining us again."

Me too, lady. Me too. "Nope. Never." I shake my head emphatically.

Deputy Cope laughs at my enthusiastic response. "Good deal." She points to a heavy-duty looking door on my right. There's a tall, narrow window with thick glass right in the center, and through it I can see Edward waiting.

He's been a sight for my sore eyes ever since I grew boobs and realized boys were actually not that gross, but today, he's just … gah. He's not even dressed up, clad in jacket, jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt, but he looks gorgeous. Maybe it's because he's come to my rescue. He's become a knight to my inner princess in distress. It's then I realize jail has turned my brain to mush. To rectify my idiotic thoughts, I picture Edward, riding a unicorn that's puking a rainbow and farting puffs of pink cotton candy.

It doesn't help. I'm sort of mesmerized by the thought, actually.

A loud buzz comes from the door and it clicks open. "You're free to go, Miss Swan."

"See ya." I can't get out of there fast enough, and I run straight into Edward's open arms. I throw my arms around his waist in what starts as a relieved expression of thanks, and ends up with me unashamedly soaking in the feel of his arms wrapped around me. It's my secret—I know it's just a friendly hug to him, and that's all it'll ever be.

He rests his chin on my head and says, "Hello, Jailbird."

I roll my eyes, even though he can't see it. "That's not funny."

"Oh, it's funny." He pulls back and peers down at me, making a show of scanning my clothing. "What, they wouldn't let you keep the outfit? I bet you'd look good in stripes."

"There is no 'outfit,' dumbass."

"How am I supposed to know? I've never been to jail," he says with a smug grin.

"Not for lack of trying, I'm sure. Having a detective for a best friend probably doesn't hurt." I grin right back.

"Having a detective for a brother didn't help you much, did it? Maybe we should tell him about this little meeting…"

I meet his teasing with a death glare. It must work, because he suddenly looks nervous and clears his throat, glancing around like he needs to find the quickest way out of this joint, like yesterday.

Fine. By. Me.

"Come on. My car's just down the block." Abruptly, he guides me toward the exit.

"What, no valet service?" I nudge him in the side, though I'd rather he pull me closer than push me away. I don't want him to know that, of course. Lucky me, he doesn't budge, only leads me through the double doors and away from my own personal hell.

"It's jail, not the Ritz, Bella," he says with an exaggerated sigh as we head down the street.

"Don't remind me." I take a deep breath of damp Seattle air and let it out. A little shiver of relief shakes my shoulders and Edward pulls me closer, looking down at me with concern.

"You're okay, aren't you? Nothing … happened in there, right?" His worried expression darkens with anger. "Bella, if—"

"No, no! Edward, I'm fine, I promise. I'm just glad to be out of there." God, he looks hot when he's mad. Protective men—meaning Charlie and Emmett—usually annoy me. But Edward, now, he's a whole different story. Seeing him ready to defend me has my heart beating just a bit faster. I stifle a smile and look down at our feet as we walk.

Edward stops right in the middle of the sidewalk and turns me to face him. Gently, he grips my biceps and bends a bit so I don't have to crane my neck to see his face. "If something did happen, you'd tell me, right? Because Emmett would kick my ass—"

"Relax. Your ass isn't in jeopardy," I assure him, deadpan. The reminder of my brother almost sours my mood, but I'm enjoying this too much.

Nodding, he gives me his trademark half-smile and we head down the block. Once again, he throws an arm around my shoulders. I do an internal fist-pump.

"So tell me, Bella—what's it like in the slammer? Did you trade cigarettes for favors? Smuggle contraband? Make someone your bitch?"

I can't help but laugh. "I was in jail for one night, not in prison for ten years!"

"Come on, you could at least make something up. Entertain me. I did come all the way down here to get you."

"Go watch Orange is the New Black. Surely you have Netflix."

Putting his free hand to his heart, Edward asks, "Did you just invite me to Netflix and chill?"

I blink in surprise—and nearly drool at the thought. Yes, please.

"Relax, Bella. I was kidding," he laughs, crushing all my schoolgirl hopes and dreams. "God, the look on your face! Priceless."

Before I can cover my disappointment with more snark, we reach his car. It's sleek and black, and so shiny it looks like he just drove it off the lot. It probably shoots hundred dollar bills out the tailpipes as he drives.

"You got a new car? I thought doctors spent all their salary on student loan payments."

He grins and digs in his pocket, producing an electronic key attached to a Seahawks keychain. "I'm all paid up on the loans." One beep later and he's opening my door. "I bought this about six months ago."

"How'd you manage that? Those aren't exactly payday loans." I'll have a shit ton of student loans once I graduate, and a Master's in Education doesn't cost nearly as much as an MD.

Edward waits for me to get settled in the car, then leans an arm on the doorframe and dips down to my level. "I worked as an escort in medical school," he says, as if he's just told me he had oatmeal for breakfast this morning. "I also stripped a little on the side. It's quite lucrative."

If I'd been drinking anything, it would be all over his windshield. "Are you kidding me?" I don't realize my mouth is hanging open until he nudges it closed with a fingertip. I'm too busy wondering about his going rate, and if I could possibly afford it.

Laughing, he shakes his head. "Bella, Bella. You're too easy."

I'm strangely disappointed. I can't tell him that, so I come up with, "Shouldn't I be saying that about you?"

"Guess I deserved that one. Now, put your seatbelt on." He waits a beat, like he's making some kind of decision. "My grandfather Platt had more money than God. I have a trust fund," he says, like it's a bad thing.

The door shuts with a soft thump and I do as he says, then get grumpy with myself because I did it without giving him shit. I've gone out of my way to give him shit for most of my life, why am I stopping now?

While he crosses around to the driver's side, I take in my surroundings. The bucket seats are butter-soft, cream-colored leather. There's not a speck of dust on the dashboard, and the console looks as if it contains more computing power than my Mac. Edward settles in and buckles his seatbelt. With one push of a button, the car purrs to life. And I do mean purr. It's throaty and deep, one of those engine sounds that just screams, "I go so fast, the cops won't be able to catch me."

It's a nice ride, which doesn't surprise me. Edward has always been meticulous about his cars—even the ancient Volvo he drove in high school sparkled (with the help of a hell of a lot of Turtle Wax, Armor-All, and elbow grease). Don't ask how I know. It involves a gallon of milk, sixty minutes, a lost bet, and a whole lot of humiliation on my part. Emmett and I had to wash his car for a month.

"This really is a nice car."

"Thanks!" He smiles wide as his long fingers curl around the steering wheel.

I have to force myself from fantasizing about those fingers. It's no easy task.

When I finally stop entertaining my dirty, dirty thoughts, I take in his enthusiastic grin. I picture him pressing his foot on the gas and saying, "Vroom, vroom!" like a little kid with his matchbox cars. Then I'm staring at his fingers again and dreaming about what else I'd like them to touch. I need to find something to keep my thoughts from spiraling completely down into the gutter, so I do what I do best. Stir shit.

"Edward, I have to ask … is James Bond mad?" I ask, fighting hard to keep a straight face. Yep, this'll do nicely.

I'm rewarded with a side-eyed glance as he pulls out of the parking space. "What?"

"Was he mad when you stole his car?" I point to the mainframe server on his dash. "At least one of these buttons has to deploy an oil slick or shoot spikes from the tires. Maybe fire a few rockets? But, you need to know—I can't protect you if he comes looking to get his car back. I might be a hardened criminal and all, but I'm a runner, not a fighter."

Edward shakes his head, but I can still see the way his lips curve even though I can tell he doesn't want to smile. "Nope. This one's all mine." He taps the wheel. "This thing's on the right side. If this was James Bond's car, you'd be in the driver's seat." He stops at a light and turns to look straight at me. "That'd be scary." Then he points to an ambiguous button outlined in glowing blue. "That's the rocket launcher."

"Ha ha. The old 'women drivers' joke. Amateur," I scoff, resting back against the plush headrest. This seat really does feel like a leather-wrapped cloud in heaven. I close my eyes and sigh in bliss.

"Not 'women drivers'," he says, "just you."

Ugh. There goes my bliss. If I had the energy to open my eyes, I'd give him the side-eye. "All because I backed out of the garage that one time…"

He cracks up. "The door was down!"

I smirk. "Semantics."

"You're something else."

"Oh, I know what that means. People only say that when they can't find anything nice to say about you!"

"Or it could mean you're unique."

"An adjective that is also both good and bad!"

He laughs. "Touché."

Then we're moving, and the smooth ride is almost like being rocked to sleep.

"Where to, Bella?" Edward asks as we accelerate. It pushes me back into the comfy seat and all I want to do is go home and sleep in my own bed … until I remember one tiny detail.

Jake.

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a/n:

One: I stole the "sweet virgin ass" line from the movie Half Baked. Or rather, I was thinking of that scene as I wrote.

Two: I know, there's a Jake. Trust me.

Three: Yes, I know you still don't know why Bella was in jail. Trust me. I don't write stuff that hurts (99% of the time), and this is not one of those times.

See you next Friday!