Chapter Six

BPOV

Edward's here, in my house, wrapped in my arms.

He says we'll be friends, and I agree, but it doesn't feel like we're just friends.

It doesn't feel like friendship, this hum of energy between us, the evidence of my arousal pressed against his chest, the evidence of his digging into my belly.

It feels wrong, having this man in my house, the very same house my husband built for me, him, and our son.

But, then again, it feels so right. Through the guilt and the confusion, the tangled web of conflict and impending judgment of others ... it feels natural being held by this man.

Fitting.

Comforting.

I meld into him as though I were made for this very purpose, my body crafted to rest nestled in his arms. I know we're both lying to one another, lying to ourselves. I know we'll never be friends.

There's a line, an invisible line twisted around my heart, and tied neatly around his. I feel it pulling and tugging, drawing me near. I'll get sucked in soon, I know it.

I'm already sucked in.

I'm the first one to pull away, leaving his reluctant arms. My body is overheated, warm from his touch. I tingle in places that I've somehow forgotten existed, and the want outweighs the guilt. I'm miserable, stirring cream and sugar in my own coffee, watching his lanky form slip into a chair.

Edward smiles, sipping his coffee. He doesn't hide his roaming eyes. His mouth says 'friends' but his body tells me so much more, from the darkening of his eyes, the swelling in his jeans, to the heat of his skin. The two of us are live wires, one just as affected as the other. My body is a ticking time bomb, waiting to explode.

Clearing my throat, and shaking myself from my thoughts, I join him at the table. Crossing my legs, my stomach flips as his eyes dwindle on the curve of my waist, the flare of my hips, then devour my breasts. I struggle to bring his attention away from my body, before I do something drastic.

Like devour his mouth.

Straddle his lap.

Dig my fingers into his flesh.

"Want a tour of the house?"

These words cause him to tear his eyes away from my tits. The darkness fades, replaced by a nervous light.

"Are you sure? Is that okay?"

"Yeah," I tell him softly, honestly. "Do you want to?"

Edward nods, giving me an encouraging smile.

I lead him around the main floor, pointing out various objects. There's pottery I picked up on trips to Nevada, throws my grandmother hand-knitted while I was a child. My voice carries throughout the house as I climb the steps to the second floor, my heart fluttering in my chest. I pause near the banister, glancing haphazardly down the hall.

Why did I bring him here?

Will he think ...

"What's this room?" he asks, smiling as he picks up my nervousness, leading me away from the cracked door revealing my bedroom.

"Wait," I gasp, but it's too late.

Edward stands in front of my baby's bedroom, his eyes wide, his face a ghastly pallor. The sight of this man, whom I so blatantly blamed at one point for murdering my family, standing near my baby's room is ... unnerving, surreal, a dream infused with a nightmare.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, dropping his eyes. "I didn't think, I mean, it didn't register ..."

"It's okay," I lie, avoiding his guilt-laced eyes. "I didn't think either."

We stand there, awkward, nonspeaking for several minutes. Just staring.

"Do you ever go in?"

I shake my head, a tremble settling into my bones at the very thought.

"Not in two years," I admit, the corners of my eyes pricking with tears. "I try to pretend it's not there ... if it doesn't exist, maybe it wasn't real."

Edward nods, glancing hesitantly between me and the bedroom. He says nothing more. He doesn't have to, but he does offer his hand, nodding towards the bedroom.

And I take it. I take his large, rough hand in mine, absently mindful of the worn thumb rubbing comforting, controlled circles on my soft flesh. He languidly guides me into the bedroom, my son's bedroom.

I let him. I let him take me into the bedroom with the airplanes suspended from blue, painted skies. I let him hold me when I crumble, sobbing at the framed portrait of me, Eric, and Ben that's propped on the little, white dresser, the frame covered in a fine coating of dust. I let him rub feather light circles on my back. I let him kiss my forehead, feeling a wetness of tears fall from his cheeks.

I let him console me ... console me in a way no one else has done since that fateful day, the day the two of us lost so much, the day we gained something new.

"Why do you do this?" he asks, his lips brushing against my forehead. "Why do you stay in this house, and avoid this room if it makes you so sad?"

"Because it's all I have left of them," I confess, my voice a weak whisper.

He pulls me tighter against his body, lightly massaging my scalp with his fingertips with one hand, the other placed lightly on the small of my back. It's a different embrace than before. The embrace we shared in the kitchen was dizzying, breathtaking, soul-binding. This one is morose, and gut-wrenching. The kind of clinging embrace that drains my soul of existence, pulling me from my body, and wringing out what little life I have left in me.

"Because it makes me stronger, being here, facing my fears, " I continue, breathing in a shuddering gasp. "At least that's what my mother says. Facing our fears makes us stronger. Weak people run from their problems."

Edward's arms stiffen around my body at my robotic words. I've repeated them so many times that they've become practiced, stale, dry.

"Starting a new life doesn't make you weak," he murmurs, lifting his chin from atop my head. He tilts my chin up, staring deeply into my eyes. "You deserve happiness."

I hesitantly glance around the room, taking in the bookshelf crammed with Little Golden books, the rocking chair in the corner, the very same rocking chair my mother rocked me in when I was a child. Fat tuffs of clouds are painted along the sky-blue walls. Emerald-green grass sprouts up from the baseboards, in thin wisps of paint.

"I don't want to forget," I whisper. "But, I don't want to remember either. Does that make sense? Am I making any sense?"

Edward nods, giving me a tender smile.

"You're making perfect sense."

I return his smile, then take one last look around the room.

There's memories in this room, memories of me rocking Ben to sleep at night, pressing my lips against the crown of his head, dreaming about his future. I still feel the tickle of his silky, black hair against my face. The scent of baby powder still hangs in the air.

"I don't want to run, but I can't live like this anymore," I confess, gnawing on the corner of my bottom lip. "I can't keep avoiding this room, but I can't keep it the way it is. He's not coming home. He's never coming home."

Tears prick the corners of my eyes, then spill over. Memories flood my mind, memories of the phone call I received the day my family passed away, memories of the funeral, memories of the hate I felt towards the very same man holding me now. The hate smothered the guilt for a while, until it didn't. The guilt shared the emptiness that infiltrated my heart, and then ... and then there was Edward, entering my life again in an entirely different way.

I no longer feel quite so empty inside.

"Would it make me a horrible person if I took all this down? Put it away? Turned this room into something else?"

"No," he replies, giving me a relieved smile. "That would make you human."

I breathe a sigh of relief, then worry envelopes me again.

"I guess I'll need to hire someone ... someone to help me paint, move furniture ..."

My mind reels as I think of all the things that need to be done, things I've never had to do for myself before.

Edward's red-rimmed eyes come to life. A slow, creeping grin peaks across his face, pushing the clouds away.

"I know the perfect guy for the job," he murmurs, eyes darting across my face.

Edward returns to my house two days later. The bed of his truck is full of boxes. The corners of his lips are turned up in a sweet smile. And my heart? My heart's fluttering in my chest.

"He came back," I whisper, to no one, I whisper to myself.

Bottom lip nervously tucked between my teeth, I dart down the walkway to where he stands unloading the boxes. It's a pretty, summer day. The sun sparkles in the pristine, blue sky. There's not a wisp of a cloud, only a teasing hint of a breeze.

I feel silly standing behind him, pretending not to study the tattoos on his arms, or the way his muscles flex beneath his thin shirt as he reaches and bends. I feel silly because I woke up with a grin on my face, and took time to make myself pretty. I made myself pretty for him.

Edward seems to notice. His eyes linger on my bare legs below the hem of my simple sundress, and on my made-up eyes. He tucks a loose strand of hair behind the bend of my ear. Those green eyes of his lock on my lips, and when I smile he smiles.

"You ready?" he asks, brushing those fingers down the side of my cheek.

And like a schoolgirl, I tilt my head, melting into his touch.

"Uh, yeah," I say, flustered with myself , shaking my ridiculous head. "Let me help you with the boxes."

Ignoring his protests, I grab as many boxes as possible, stacking the smaller ones inside the larger. He follows me inside the house, and up the stairs. The lightness of our moods tightens into something else once inside my son's bedroom, but I ignore it, chatting about the nice weather other idle subjects.

My throat constricts with every object placed inside the boxes: the stuffed teddy bear my father presented us with at the hospital, the stacks of Golden Books with the whimsical, cartoon characters, the hospital bracelet he wore after his birth. There are a few items I leave behind, items I can't bear to box up: a framed picture of Eric and I holding a newborn Ben, the baby book I halfheartedly filled with my tired scrawls during my pregnancy. I wish I'd been more diligent with that book. I wish I'd known …

"Did you decide what you're gonna turn this room into?" Edward asks, his smooth voice pulling me from my morose thoughts.

"I did. It's gonna be an office/library sort of thing."

"Have you thought about what color you want to paint your new office/library sort of thing?" he questions with a teasing grin, gesturing around the room.

I follow the sweep of his hand, and I can see it. I can see the trees, clouds, and sky covered … covered but not forgotten. No, never forgotten.

"Something bright. Something cheery," I muse aloud, thoughtfully tapping my chin with the tip of my finger. "Yellow. Yeah, I think yellow will do just fine."

"A yellow office?" he questions, a humorous smile tugging on his lips.

"Yeah. A yellow office."

"Well, then," he replies, standing and offering me his outstretched hand. "Yellow it is."

My hand fits so snug inside his.

This is what I think to myself as he leads me from my home, hand in hand. I'm so ridiculously happy with his warm fingers intertwined in mine. So happy that there's an extra bounce in my step.

We've already loaded the bed of his extended-cab truck full of boxes. Edward suggested donating them to children in need. At the spur of the moment I agreed, remembering the Salvation Army drop-off bin near the local grocery store. I feel dizzy with a new-found freedom, of making hasty decisions and holding the hand of a man who's not mine to claim.

Oh, but the possibilities.

Edward opens the door of his truck for me, and I slide inside. The hem of my dress hangs on the worn, cracked leather, but I pay it no mind. My attention is now drawn elsewhere, on the words of my mother, on the things she scolded me for during my childhood.

"You live in your own head, Bella. You're so full of possibilities that you're blind to the reality of things. Get your head out of the clouds."

"Something wrong?

I startle, glancing up and meeting his eyes. I shake my head, brushing my mother's words from my mind. My eyes spot more boxes in the cab of his truck, and I furrow my brow.

"What's with the extra boxes? Didn't think we'd have enough?"

"Oh, uh. Nah. There's just some old stuff of mine in there," he says, unsteady with his own words.

I study his face as he turns the engine, and my heart trips and stumbles. He's holding something back from me. I don't know him very well, but I know him well enough to tell when he's avoiding something. I try not to let his vague explanation or the thoughts of my condescending mother ruin our day. I plaster a happy smile on my face, one that turns into a grin as we pull into Lowe's.

"You're awfully excited for someone who's gonna be painting their ass off for the next couple of days," he tells me with a grin.

"I could stand to lose a little of this ass," I joke, grasping the truck handle.

"I think your ass looks fine."

My mouth drops open and Edward's face blushes tomato red. I'm a kid again, pressing an open palm to my mouth, vainly attempting to smother the giggles.

"Shit, that didn't sound so bad in my head," he grumbles. "Sorry."

"Have you been … checking out my ass, Mr. Cullen?"

Edward's eyes are as wide as saucers, and he begins stumbling over his words, which causes me to giggle even harder. I'm clutching my stomach, the laughter bringing tears to my eyes. He shoots me a playful glare, and before I know it he's sliding across the leather. Edward buries his fingers into my ribs, tickling me into submission.

"Uncle, uncle," I declare, between fits of giggles and gasps.

I'm feebly pushing his probing fingers away, laughing so hard that I'm leaning into him. The tickling ceases, and his hands relax on my ribs, his thumbs dangerously close to the underside of my breasts. My face rests in the crook of his neck, and I'm breathing in the smell of his soap, his cologne, him.

"Bella," he whispers, and my spoken name is hoarse, all grit and man.

The sound of my name spoken in such a way shoots straight between my legs, and I have that sensation again ... that sensation I only feel when I think about him. I shift, caught somewhere between friendship and … something more. All I know is his hair is soft, so soft as my fingers thread through the unruly strands feathering at the nape of his neck. I can't even speak, because I'm flying. Even wrapped in his arms I'm flying and free. I've never felt this light, this needy before in my life.

The scruff of his sharp jaw burns against the sensitive flesh of mine. His lips whisper against the corner of my mouth, and I turn my face towards his. Tugging on that messy hair causes him to moan, and I know I've crossed the line. We've crossed the line.

I'm caught up in the moment and maybe I'm making a mistake. The emotions of the day are clouding my brain. That has to be it. Maybe that's it, but do I care? Do I care about anything other than kissing this man?

Not really.

"What happened to friends?" I mumble, my lips ghosting against his.

Edward's breathing hard, and it's sweet, the way it smells and the way it tastes, blowing into my parted lips. I want to kiss him. I want to press my lips against his and never stop. I want to live forever in this moment, kissing him and feeling his hard body next to mine.

Edward whispers the word, but friendship is the last thing on my mind. No, those lips pressing against mine is all I can think about. In a very un-Bella like move, I kiss his open mouth, gently melding my lips to his. My stomach flutters as he moans. Those hands of his are still splayed open on my ribs picking me up as though I weigh nothing. Edward pulls me into his lap, and I can feel that I affect him just as much as he affects me.

I feel how much I affect him pressing against the curve of my ass.

Edward's tongue finds entrance between my parted lips, and I shiver at the warmth, at the taste. He's tender, so tender as he kisses me, but I'm not tender. I'm hungry and seeking, becoming a woman that I've never known myself to be. I'm kissing this man in the parking lot of a Lowe's Home Improvement Warehouse like some white-trash hussy.

I couldn't care less.

My body moves to its own accord, and warmth flows through my veins as I realize I'm rolling my hips, desperate to sedate the burn building between my legs. The burn only increases as his parted fingers move upward. Edward lightly brushes the pads of his thumbs over my nipples, my nipples that are so eagerly straining against the thin material of my bra and dress. I twist the strands of his hair between my fingers, moaning into his mouth, fueling him on.

Edward fully cups my breasts in his hands, giving them a gentle squeeze, but it's not enough. It'll never be enough. I guide his head from my lips, pushing him further down. Scruffy-jawed kisses linger down my neck, and across my collarbone. His tongue soothes the burn as he travels further down. The thin strap of my dress falls from my shoulder, and I've never been so happy to be wearing a strapless bra.

"What if someone sees us?" he mumbles, more unsure of himself than I.

My eyes dart around the parking lot, but we're parked near the end of a row, and there's no shoppers dawdling around. And even if there were …

"I don't care."

Edward smiles against my skin, pushing the remaining strap from my shoulder. He tugs the front of my dress down, and suddenly I realize I'm sitting in his lap, the dress pooled around my waist, with only a silky, strapless bra covering my breasts.

Edward's hot, heavy breath blows against my chest. He seems to be internally debating something … his face resting just over the rounded cleavage. I make the decision for him, tugging the material down and guiding his mouth where I need him so bad.

My body jerks as his tongue finds one nipple. He rolls his hot tongue around the erect peak, and my hips buck. He whispers my name again, and it sounds pained. And then he loses his hesitancy, sucking my nipple between his lips, teasing it with his tongue, while toying with the other one between his fingers.

Suddenly, he's as hungry as I am. I gasp as he lifts me once more, situating my legs on either side of his. My heat is pressed against his length, and I search his face, search for any sign that what we're doing is wrong.

"I need you. God, I've needed you since the moment you walked into that jail," he says in a rushed, dizzying confession.

"I need you too. You make me feel … so good. So good," I whimper.

I shiver as his hands slip up my thighs, dragging me closer to him. I begin to move, and God forgive me, but I don't care. I'm grinding against him and his fingers are dancing further up my thighs. He's rolling his tongue around one nipple, leaving a wet trail before moving to the other, and his hands … one hand grasps my ass and the other ...

"Oh, God."

Edward pushes aside the wet fabric between my legs, teasingly stroking my clit. Mumbled, incoherent words leave his lips as I move against his fingers, words like 'bare,' and 'wet.' When he whispers, 'fuck' he dips a finger inside me, and I'm riding him, arching my back and lavishing the sensation of his finger so deep inside me. Another one is eased in and curled. My movements are more frantic, my quick gasps filling the foggy-windowed confines of his truck. The brush of his thumb against my clit is all I need for my world to explode, and I'm clenching around his fingers, falling from the high.

Once I've slowed down I'm met with uncertain eyes. I grasp the buckle of his jeans, and those eyes widen.

"Don't tell me no. Please," I plead, leaning in and receiving his waiting kiss.

"Bella, stop."

"No, I want this. You want this. I canfeel how bad you want this. Please."

"Bella," he mumbles against my lips, something akin to laughter smothered by the contact. "Unless you want to get arrested by that cop pulling in beside us, you need to stop."

I glance through the steamy window, noticing a familiar head of shaggy, blonde hair. The man wears a navy uniform, and an expression of shock etched across his face as he exits the vehicle, his eyes locking on mine. I haven't seen him in a while. He never comes to church anymore. He works the late shift, so I never bumped into him at the station during my ministry. I'm frozen for a moment at the mere sight of him. The the paralysis slips away, replaced with sheer and utter horror.

"Oh, my God. That's not just any cop," I moan, fumbling with my bra, with my dress as I cower in Edward's arms. "That's my brother."

With a wrinkled dress and a burning face, I fumble with the handle on Edward's truck, then open the door. He reaches for his door handle as well, but pauses as I shoot him a look of panic.

"Stay in the truck. Please," I whisper. "This is shocking ... for both of us. Let me talk to him."

Edward holds my gaze for a long moment, seeing the panic in my eyes. He then gives a curt nod. His mouth sets in a firm line as I slam the door behind me and slowly walk around the front of his truck. Jasper is staring at me, those blue eyes of his boring into my skull from where he leans casually against his patrol car. I'm startled by the amused grin curling on his face, and they way his eyes flicker between me and Edward.

"The mournful widow is mournful no more."

Jasper releases a wicked snicker, then crosses his feet at the ankle. My stomach twists with his words. Shame and anger infiltrate my system.

"Don't you dare talk to me that way."

"What way do you expect me to talk to you? I just caught you giving Edward Cullen, of all people, a half-naked lap dance in the parking lot of Lowes. You do remember who Edward Cullen is, right? The guy who's ruined all our lives?"

"You know it was an accident. You had first-hand knowledge of the investigation."

Jasper pushes himself away from the car, then steps descends upon me. I take a step back. He steps forward. The sarcastic smile is no longer twisted on his face. It's replaced with wrath, and flashing eyes. I hear the door of Edward's truck open, and he emerges from the truck. Jasper pauses in his pursuit. He gives Edward a good head-to-toe before spitting out a few, final words.

"Believe what you want to believe. I choose to believe the original police report. I always have and I always will. Eli's fucked up now. He's fucked up in the head. He's fucked up because ofhim." Jasper jerks his thumb towards Edward. "Eli is your nephew. What happened to family? To loyalty? Don't you care about me? Alice? Eli? You know what? Fuck you, Bella.Fuck you."

"Watch your mouth. Bella doesn't deserve this. She's a grown woman who's been through a lot. I've blamed myself for the accident, but she doesn't blame me. She blames herself. She blames herself and she shouldn't."

Edward's words are spoken quiet and low. With clenched fists, he takes a step forward. Jasper stands his ground, his hand twitching near his gun, sending my heart into a tailspin.

"You don't remember seeing me the day of the wreck," Jasper spits, "but I'll never forget you. You murdered my best friend, and my nephew. My son, Eli ... he was there. My wife was dropping him off at the daycare. They saw it, Edward. They saw you slam your wife's car into the vehicle. My kid has nightmares and flashbacks, nightmares and flashbacks caused by you. They wouldn't even allow me to work anywhere near you during your recent incarceration, which only tells me that you're still, to this very day, fucking up my life. You'll have to excuse me from patting you on the back and congratulating you for banging my sister."

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