Ring
XxX
(Edward: 6 months ago)
It is the second shot of Jägermeister he has rejected, with a shy smile, from the two ladies at the end of the bar.
He is not in a mood for their company.
"They're all about you, man." Mike pushes the thick, spicy liqueur back to him.
He's waiting for his brother, not the hug of a hangover. "Send it back with my thanks, but put it on my tab."
Rubbing the back of his warm neck, Edward sends the girls a grateful, but dismissive smile and nod. He does not see them roll their eyes.
He's flattered but unwilling to submit to conceit the way everyone thinks he should. It's ridiculous to him.
He looks again at the wall mirror mounted behind the racks of liquor bottles. Her face, her eyes are looking his way between the bourbon and rum.
She must not know about the mirror and how perfectly placed she is in his line of vision or, he is certain, she wouldn't be so obvious.
He's been staring, too. He smirks into his beer, catching her glances between the bridge of a double-neck-guitar rock ballad.
"Woah oh, we're living on a prayer, take my hand we'll make it, I swear…" sings an affected effeminate voice into his ear, like a musical wet willy.
"Oooh, nice, baby," laughs Edward, pulling back from his brother's antics with a matching grin.
"You like that? I sound better than she does. She's killing that song." Emmett pulls out a stool and uses his size to flag down Mike for a beer. The karaoke singer's version of Livin' On a Prayer is raucous with pitch-less wailing.
Edward takes in the scene behind him. "But at least she has the crowd singing along," he shoots back.
"Since when do you come to karaoke anyway?"
"Since my bar decided to betray me. How are you?"
Emmett looks good, rested, a man casually enjoying his bachelorhood. "Living the good life, bro, living the good life. Mom made cookies for tomorrow, says she wants us there bright and early."
They tap beer necks in hello. "No problem."
Emmett reaches past his brother for the bowl of peanuts left on the bar and munches away. "Alright, so tell me, what's this news?"
Taking some of his brother's peanuts, Edward grins proudly. "Their sending me on assignment. To Colorado."
This could mean anything. Edward is always being sent away. "Okay?"
"I've been asked to follow a millionaire around. We're hiking fifteen 14ers in the next three months."
"Too much math. Talk English."
With a pre-story swig, Edward gives him the important parts: The millionaire lobbied for a vanity piece documenting the last fifteen summits he needs to complete his goal. Over the last few years, he's made it to the top of thirty-nine mountains. Each mountain summit peaks at 14,000-feet-plus above sea level into the airless void. He's been asked to document the ascents for an article and hike with a crew.
It's expected to be physically arduous.
"It's only dangerous if you're not prepared," says Edward preempting his brother's need for reassurance.
It's not as though Edward isn't fit. He's a marathoner, a strong swimmer, and has spent more time in the outdoors, and by extension, his own head, longer than most people. But, Emmett knows that climbing above tree-line can cause altitude sickness – a convergence of perfect-storm body malfunctions – nausea, shortness of breath, dizziness, confusion.
One wrong step. Does his brother realize this? "Are you?"
There she is again, her chest forward like it's singing into a microphone, attacking another cheesy 80's ballad. Edward bites back his grin. His brother distracts him, but keeping up the thread of conversation is second nature.
"I'm ready," he says into the mirror, deflecting.
"So you're, what, hiking up with llamas and shit?"
"And mountain goats for stew. Maybe we'll get lucky and have bunny and venison for dinner every night."
They play catch with sarcasm. It's what they do, but it creeps in that Emmett's not into it.
Understanding his brother's concern, Edward softens his stance. "We'll have a crew and the sponsors provide the gear. We'll have the best support, Em. I'll have to review a few overly-priced tents and hiking shoes, do write ups, but it's going to be stunning. Colorado in the Fall."
"The leaves will be cool. Send mom a picture. She'll love that shit."
"I know, already talked to her."
Emmett nods. After imagining Edward trekking up through the woods, he remembers a story that sends shivers down his spine. "Wait. You're not going to be like that Into the Wild guy, are you?"
"Krakauer?" Edward is surprised, but pleased that his brother remembers the author of his favorite book.
"No, man. The Candles guy. You're not going to renounce your family, fucking burn your dollars and live off the land, are you?"
"You mean McCandless?" Chris McCandless was a boy found dead in the wilderness. Emmett's jest, inadvertently, injects doubt into Edward's bloodstream. He shivers as if a snake crawled up his back.
"Of course, you can always hook up with some hippy chick from a trailer park and sing each other love tunes."
"Wait. I gave you that book. I don't remember that."
"It wasn't. I loaned the book to mom, but it's in the movie."
"There's a hippie chick in the movie?"
"Yeah."
"Did you even read the book?"
"Yeah." Emmett takes a good pull from his beer when inspiration strikes. "You should tell mom that you're becoming a hermit and living off of nuts and berries." He laughs, taking the moment and turning it mischievous.
Edward's eyes glint. "Oh, man. She'd kill me."
"I know."
He pictures his mother's bulging eyes while screaming for his father to 'Come. Here. Right. Now.'
"It'd be funny. Her reaction."
"No, shit. I know."
"Evil."
"Ditto," says Em, trying not to choke on his beer.
Edward glances at the bourbon and the brown eyes again. She cups a hand around her friend's ear and talks with her other hand.
"Is she hot?" asks Edward, leaning into his brother, but keeping his eye on her.
"All brown hair and long skinny legs, your type," says Emmett.
"I'll have to rent that."
Emmett nods and remembers to ask, "Christmas?"
"I'll be here. I'm not leaving for a few weeks. They'll base me out of Seattle."
"Mom…"
"She knows. You think I'd tell you first?"
Emmett nods his approval, he's used to covering all his bases.
"Still with your editor?" He's also used to covering all of Edward's bases.
Edward grimaces, recalling slate-colored eyes, snapping in disapproval through frame-less designer glasses. "Tanya?"
Emmett, never a fan of the T-word, doesn't hold back. "Yeah, you and danger."
"It was short-lived." And not worth it. "But it's off. She wanted more."
Emmett knew this would happen. Unlike him, his brother was aloof to everyone but his own family. Women, no matter how tenacious, were never satisfied with his brother's insularity.
They drink beer and watch ESPN on the flat screen, another steroids-in-baseball story breaks the news.
Emmett, tired of being trumped all night by the girl near the stage, elbows his brother. He leans in to see his brother's view and thinks the blonde is smoking hot. The brunette is a looker, but a size too small for his liking.
"You going to stare at her all night or man up?"
Edward's irritated at being caught ogling like a school boy, but it's directed at himself. He shrugs and takes a good swig of his beer.
Mike saunters up with two shots. "Here you go".
"Nah, Mike, I told you, I'm not…" Edward starts.
Putting a hand up in halt, Mike tells him it's not for him. "They're for me and your brother here."
Emmett follows Mike's gaze to the end of the bar, and the same ladies that Edward rejected, wave painted fingernails at them.
"Well, don't mind if I do," says Emmett, raising his glass in salute to the girls, mouthing a "thank you", and swallowing the liqueur with a hidden shudder.
Mike tells them that the girls want to take them to a strip club. His doughy, All-American face puffs into an expectant grin. "I could meet you guys after my shift."
"First of all, I don't want glitter on my skin. It's disgusting. Second of all, who takes strange guys to a strip club anyway?" Emmett focuses his beer goggles and cranes his neck to peer closely at the two girls.
They are pretty in a department-store-model kind of way, straight out of his mother's glossy catalogues, generic and forgettable. Both are three-sheets-to-the-wind wobbly.
"I don't know," laughs Mike, mistaking his part in the fraternal camaraderie, "I heard your mother likes the pole between her legs." His mouth says this before his brain can catch up.
One look at the Cullen brothers, and the hallways in Mike's head fill loudly with the chirping of wild crickets. They frown at him with twin displeasure and icy glares that make him stumble over an acute apology.
Their silent stares follow him to the end of the bar where Mike busies himself, wiping the same spot furiously.
Edward is the first to break. "He's so easy."
"Yeah, and an idiot."
"At least he has that going for him."
Emmett finishes his beer. It's gotten warm, and he has to get up early in the morning.
"Alright, I'm heading out. See you tomorrow."
His brother, distracted, nods his head. "Wouldn't miss it."
A stool scrapes against concrete, and he watches her rise and tug at her t-shirt where it's ridden up on her back.
Emmett bends down to his Edward's ear. "Careful. Objects in the mirror are closer than they seem, little brother."
Edward's brain instinctively ignores this, his heart does not.
It races.
He plays it off with a shrug and a grin, but Emmett looks at him like he's grown two heads.
"What?"
"Nothing, nothing." He says in farewell, patting Edward on the back.
Once again, Emmett manages to leave his brother with the bar tab.
XxX
When she steps up to the bar, he slyly glimpses at her profile. She tries to play it cool, her body moving to the music and pretending he is not there.
Her hair, loose and wilted from body heat, is caught at the nape by her slim fingers. It is long and settles over her right breast, the tips brush along the peak of her nipples.
Her ass in those jeans; his body responds on his behalf, uncrossing his legs, hooking his heels on the bottom rail and sitting in welcome-stance. He imagines his hands traversing the slopes of her body.
He notices the ring and his heart, used to lack of oxygen under extreme duress, keeps tempo with the size of this new thrill.
The whiskey she asks for is suddenly necessary.
She is gorgeous and he's been watching her all night, casting glances, and when she's finally near, he's too stubborn to let it go.
When she takes the seat nervously, and bids her friend good-bye, he imagines she must be looking for a bit of fun.
He smiles good-naturedly with a level glance, gauging. "Long day?"
"You can say that." She breathes it out like she's wanted someone to ask her that all day.
She belongs to someone else.
But he is too hopped up on the leftover adrenaline from the news of his assignment to let details bother him, and besides, he's getting drunk on her voice.
When he asks her why she needs the drink, he's prepared to hear about the husband. But she surprises him and tells him she's a teacher. She walks him through a tiring day, shuffling kids in and out of a Biology classroom, setting up and breaking down labs, sneaking glances at the clock more often than they do.
He laughs because, as he tells her, she'd be the teacher he'd pick on just to see her fluster.
He was a bad kid, he admits, because he was bored.
She blushes at his admission and tells him she'd send him to detention.
"Did you always want to be a Biology teacher?" he asks. He wants to imagine her with her hair pinned up, neck exposed, and high-heeled.
"Oh, no. I wanted to be a Geologist. I loved Earth Sciences when I was a kid. I was your classic tomboy."
Her own earthly stories are buried so deep, he shovels with question after question until he hits pay-dirt and she haltingly relays childhood memories of digging up worms, fishing with her dad, hiking unpaved trails, and morning swims in creeks.
She is obviously a girl of Summer, he muses, with the fondness of fingers that itch to tuck her hair behind her ear.
She speaks about herself like she's a discarded photograph and he knows, then, that whomever she belongs to has a tenuous hold.
She is telling him about a kayaking adventure through the black canyons of Colorado with her friend, Rose.
"I'm going there on assignment," he interrupts excitedly, launching into details and signaling Mike for another round.
It's smooth; this night with a woman who cannot belong to him or tie him down. He's willing to breathe air into her, if it means she'll gasp his name into the fleeting night.
Look at her, she talks with her hands. The ring is on her hand. It leaves trails under the bar lights like a symphony conductor's baton to music he's never heard of.
"I like your voice, Bella." He drinks deep and hovers close when she chuckles in self-deprecation.
She trails a finger on the rim of her glass in a lazy circle. "How would you know?"
Feeling bold, he smirks, placing elbows on the bar, and looking pointedly in the mirror. "I've seen you sing."
His voice, distilled to a sweet husky, warms her.
Following his lead, she sees a man and a woman regarding each other with curious smiles and it dawns on her that she has been sitting for him all night. Her eyes widen and her mouth shapes into an "O".
Busted.
"You've been watching?" She knows he has, he's told her. But she's one for written answers, and rehashing, and multiple methods of confirmation before she can believe what she sees.
He supplies her with a grin and a wink in answer.
She doesn't break eye contact when she smacks him on the arm playfully and calls him a dick.
"You could have told me," she says incredulously, her shyness slowly returning.
He laughs because no one has ever called him that.
Through the glass, she frowns worriedly and her teeth meet her lip, the blood pooling at the corners of her mouth.
Her reaction sobers him, and it is enough to carry him over the threshold.
He doesn't want to let her go. "I'm sorry. I supposed I should have, but then it would have sent you running, right?"
And she apologizes again and again, and tells him she did not know she was so obvious and she never approaches men and it is then that he realizes she has forgotten it.
He can hear the music of the ring when she speaks. Her hand stirs the air, thickening it.
The ring tells him everything he wants to hear, and nothing at all.
She is a lonely wife, of that there is no doubt. She is sad in her speech.
He wants to take her home. He wants to bury his body, entire, within the sweaty ringlets of her hair and the quaking pale flesh of her.
The lights are up and the bar is clearing. Last call has come and gone.
There is nothing left to say. They've reached the extent of talking.
Later that night, it will be the sound of the ring that clatters and clangs each time he is inside her, and long after she has taken it off.
Long after.
A/N:
My betas, Cesca Marie and WriteOnTime, quote philosophers and interpret particle physics for fun; respectively. I just ride on their shoulders.