DISCLAIMER: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc., are the intellectual property of the respective author. The original characters and plot are the property of Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement is intended.
A/N: Welcome back to the sequel of Chop and Change. There is a TRIGGER WARNING to this story, and I'll issue the first and last one, so please don't overlook the clause. There will be killing, violence, guns, drugs, sex, more sex, and rock & roll. This story will be ten times more brutal and crazier than C and if that story was pushing you past your comfort zone, do NOT, I repeat, DO NOT fucking read this fic! It's Darkella and Darkward from beginning to end. If you want redemption for these two or them to repent for their sins, seek it elsewhere. You've been warned, but if you're still down to ride with me after all that, all I can say is: Let's fucking do this shit!
-Before the Chop-
The mariachi music floated up into the dense cloud of cigarette smoke. The two were like lovers, rolling and mixing as one. The Tequila in heavy rotation was the mistress. She was the temptation and destruction. Men and women alike had fallen victim to its warm embrace and charming presence. It fogged the brain and lowered inhibitions. This technique was the predator's weapon, and young American girls were their prey.
The gentleman at the end of the bar was sending me my fifth shot.
They targeted me the moment I walked into a little cantina on the rough outskirts of Rocky Point. This town used to be a tourist destination. College kids flooded the streets at night, and families waddled in the ocean during the day, but things have changed drastically over the past ten years. The drug cartel moved in and took over most towns in Mexico. They put fear into the residents with ruthless force.
These low-class two-bits, the dumb and sloppy kind with the primo drugs, were our prey.
And so I drank my shots and danced to the beat, my short skirt hiking up on my thighs, higher and higher with every sway of my hips. The music moved me across the room and to the center of the floor. I was on display, but more importantly, I was alone.
Thirty minutes ago, my boyfriend and I fought, and afterward, I'd stormed out and hit up the first bar, distraught, angry, and looking to get back at him. Everyone within a twenty-foot earshot of me heard all about my sad, heartbroken, and jilted story. The Tequila flowed in abundance and eased my pain. Unfortunately, many men with dark intentions and deceiving eyes were willing to supply the demand and take my boyfriend's place.
But I wanted one man.
Juan watched me from his spot at the bar, and the louder and drunker I got, the more shots he would buy me, hoping to make me more vulnerable to him. As soon as my balance lost the battle against gravity, Juan smiled, making his way over with a slither.
"Hola, Bonita."
The accent was thick, and his grip was rough. He spoke Spanish into my ear, expecting me not to understand, but I understood every fucking syllable. He told me how white girls like me were stupid and worthless. They were only good for one thing and one thing only.
My stomach turned and revolted. I played it off as an attraction.
"Fight hard, puta," he begged me, but with this much Tequila flowing through my veins, he didn't want a fight. Instead, he wanted a girl who was physically weak and mentally submissive when he raped and killed her.
I slumped into his chest, mumbling about my boyfriend and how much I missed him. Juan, Juan, my fucking John, cackled something awful. It was a sick taunt. He knew that I'd never see my boyfriend again. I would never see anyone again.
Putting his long, smarmy arms around my waist, he pulled me off the dance floor and towards the back exit. Five men stood up to join us, but he waved them off. These criminals were Juan's crew, and they shared everything: drugs, money, cars, women, and so on. White bitches, especially, were their favorite.
But tonight was different. Juan was being greedy. He'd smelled something pure, unique, with a touch of virginal innocence about me, and he wanted this shiny, new toy all to himself repeatedly until it was used up and faded. And then later, after my eyes had lost their light, he would call up his boys to come and help him get rid of my body in the desert.
He grunted, dragging my semi-unconscious body out the back door. It slammed and locked behind him, echoing off the brick walls. The sound was like the final nail in a coffin, loud and definitive.
Propping me up against his car door, he dug through his pockets, looking for the keys. My head lolled from side to side, and my legs wobbled beneath me, but I was in control. He was foolish and arrogant, too preoccupied with his future kill to recognize the danger that stood in the corner, cloaked in the shadows, or the simple movement of my hand as it slipped inside my purse.
"Juan, Juan," I sang off-key with a playful tenor. "My silly John."
"¡Cállate!" he yelled, slapping my face hard. It stung, and the force knocked me sideways, but I rebounded without pause, righting myself. I shook my head at my protector, warding him off. These dark, impulsive green eyes locked with mine, unrelenting and wanting to intervene, but stopped at my insistence and took a step back, keeping his existence unknown.
This catch was mine, and I loved taking the hook out of the gill very, very fucking slowly.
"Or what?" There was no drunken slur in my voice as I jabbed a 9mm into his side.
"¿Que chingados!?" He shot his gaze down at me, confused by the sudden change in my lucidity and the blunt object pressing forcefully into his fucking spleen. The Spanish was fluent and pissing out of his mouth, mostly questions about me and why wasn't I passed out. He saw me drink all those tequilas. It didn't make sense.
"It's all about knowing your bartender, Juan," I said, smiling at the man who stood a foot away with a Colt, shiny and reflective, pointed at the back of this motherfucker's head. "You can speak English now. I know you know how."
"What do you want, bitch?" he said, spitting at me. Filthy and disgusting as it was, and even though it pissed Edward off every time, I was used to it. These fuckers were always slinging loogies at me. They hated that a little white girl like me got the best of them.
"Your drugs, what else?" I shrugged with indifference, but it mattered. Juan and his crew had acquired some good fucking coke. It was pure cut and worth over five hundred thousand American dollars, not this peso shit.
"You want my drugs?" Then, eyeing me close, he determined I wasn't a threat to him.
I was a tiny, little girl with a big ol' gun. It wouldn't take much to overpower and unarm someone like me. This first impression of me was what they all thought.
"I'm going to fucking kill you!" He spat in my face, kicking dirt up with his boot, and then, like they always do, he went for my gun.
I swung away from him, already anticipating his move.
Fortunately, the Tequila was far more concentrated in his bloodstream, so he wasn't coordinated, only managing to grasp the bottom of my shirt. He raised his hand, trying to slap me again, but my reflexes were on point. I ducked, and the missed momentum spun him around, and he went face-first into his car door. My Glock was cocked and pressed into his back within a nanosecond, and he had no chance of regaining control now, but Edward had seen enough. The derogatory language, along with the red hand print deepening on my cheek, was too much for him and he couldn't stay in the shadows.
Old habits die hard.
"Alright, we're done here," Edward said, snatching the keys from Juan and opening the trunk.
"I had everything under control," I said, taking a fistful of Juan's shirt and pulling him off the car. I nudged my gun into his back, pushing him to walk forward, and he complied, shuffling toward the car's rear.
"Yeah," Edward said, reaching out and palming my face. It was a gentle touch, but the sting throbbed, and I winced. The grinding of his teeth irked me. "I can fucking see that!"
He exuded energy, a possessive and territorial rage, and I felt it deep in my bones. It was hard to ignore, and of course, it turned me into that seventeen-year-old girl again, blushing and crushing on the older guy who was no good for her.
"You set me up," Juan said, glaring back at me. He was disgusted for giving in to the sweet, young bait. It dawned on him now that waving off his guys was a big fucking mistake.
Edward pointed the Colt between his eyes while I zip-tied his hands behind his back. "You should've sold your supply to Marcus."
"Fuck, Marcus!" He spat on the ground, showing his disrespect. "That puta don't own me."
"No, maybe not, but he sure as shit owns your drugs," Edward said, grabbing him by the shirt collar and throwing him into the trunk.
Juan landed hard, the car creaking and bouncing under his weight.
He knew we would kill him once we owned his coke, but he was wrong.
We were going to kill him first.
The music inside was loud, masking his pleas for help, and about five young girls with blonde hair and short skirts, courtesy of Edward, kept his boys occupied. No one was here to save him or hear a gun going off. It was desolate of people, perfect conditions for killing a fucking predator and rapist like Juan, Juan, my soon-to-be-dead John.
Edward leaned his forehead on his hand that rested on the trunk latched. "Man," he said, a bit nostalgic, watching Juan thrashing around, spewing out empty threats. He tilted his head to the side to look at me, a coy, playful smile on his lips. "I love it when they do this shit. Cooperation is overrated."
"I couldn't agree more, baby," I said, bending over and getting face-to-face with him. I did not pity this man. "Fight hard, puta."
"Do you want to do the honors, kid?" He held out his Colt to me.
I shook my head, flashing him my Glock. "I've got my own."
"Right," he said, stepping back and giving me room to stand directly above our squirming hostage.
I widened my stance and pointed the gun.
Juan fought, kicking and tossing his body against the walls of the trunk, hoping to be a difficult target for me to hit, but my aim was excellent and almost hundred percent accurate. It was the one thing I'd been working hard on perfecting. Edward was still a better shot and liked to remind me daily.
"Would you like me to do it for ya?" He grabbed my waist firmly and positioned himself directly behind me. I could his heart pounding on my back as he leaned in, whispering into my ear. "I never miss."
"Well, Mr. Cullen," I said, shrugging him off and rolling my thumb over the safety, flicking it up. "Things are about to change."
"Is that so, Mrs. Cullen?" He squeezed me harder, painfully and maddening, thrusting his hips forward and knocking me off my balance. It was a distraction, but it wouldn't work this time.
"Yeah, it is," Turning my head around to face him, I smirked. "I'll fucking prove it to you." I rose to my tip-toes, kissing him in a way that would distract us, but I kept my focus elsewhere. Bound and determined, with my gun still on Juan, I directed my aim based on his panicked screams for help. His pleas to spare his life only made things more precise for me. Then as Edward upped his game, nibbling on my bottom lip and sucking it into his beautiful mouth, I pulled the trigger.
And what do you know?
Fucking bull's eye.