Author's Note: due to the Easter holiday, this chapter is beta and pre-reader light. Thank you to the lovely - and decidedly sick in the head - mac for doing the beta.
If you like music while reading or are interested in my inspiration while writing this chapter, check out Angus and Julia Stone's song, "I'm Not Yours Anymore." Thank fuck for Goldenmeadow for recommending songs to help me through writer's block.
Also, thanks to the wired and crazy talented catonspeed for her amazing Tomato banner! I'll put it up on my profile page - check it out!
Facebook Status: I'm not yours anymore
There's something on the wing of the plane!
Oh my god, I always wanted to yell that out for real whenever I flew. I snickered, thinking about a young William Shatner in that old Twilight Zone episode. He was actually kind of hot in the dark ages - um, 1960-something-or-other - back when he still had that Captain Kirk swagger.
The sixties were a mystery to me anyway. I mean, that was before the birth of the Internet, or WiFi, or, fuck, even microwaves. No wonder everyone was high all the time.
The cabin air tasted stale. I dragged my tongue over my chapped lips and tried to act normal by not screaming, even though it would have been funny as fuck.
"What are you thinking about?" Edward looked at me with stoically, his eyes narrowing with concern. Sometimes he appeared years beyond his true age . . . like a centenarian in the body of an Abercrombie model.
I shrugged, feigning nonchalance.
It was so god damned hot in here! Sweat collected under my arms, itching my pits. Raising my arm and fanning myself, I twisted the knob on the bulkhead above our seats, but I only managed to turn the tiny light on. It might as well have been a spotlight. I suppressed a groan of vexation, burying my face in my clammy palms.
So, there was a chance I was totally high or whatever.
"You okay?" he asked, a wary tension in his tone.
"Yeah. Hot."
In the darkness behind my lids, I saw my mother's face, her blue eyes cold steel - a knife that sat between my ribs, precariously close to my heart. I breathed carefully, my lungs expanding under the weight of my fear; a shooting pain tore at my chest . . . death by a thousand tiny cuts.
A strange melody warbled out of my throat, a descant to my sorrow. I pressed my cheek to Edward's shoulder and whispered the song into his jacket. My sharp soprano sounded like broken crystal clanging together.
"Um, Bella? How many Xanax did you take . . . exactly?"
"Four." I wiped a spot of drool off the corner of my mouth. "But dude, my tolerance for this stuff is epic." Not that I should've been bragging about it.
"Yeah, I can tell. You seem to like barbiturates a little too much."
"Well, as a sexual compulsive, I suppose I could say the same thing about you," I taunted coyly, cupping his balls a little less than discreetly. "Bar - bitch - you - ate." He covered my hand with his but didn't stop me from rubbing.
"Funny," he grunted.
"So . . . did you?" My fingers curled, hooking between the buttons of his fly. I closed my eyes as my hand made contact with the silky, hot skin of his cock. This was all kinds of inappropriate, but my mind was reeling, my thoughts racing like Robin Williams doing a stand-up routine on speed.
"Did I what?" he panted, lifting his hips off the seat to allow me better access to his junk.
"Eat a lot of bitches." I stopped moving my fingers, listening to my heart push a steady pulse of blood through my body, the sound echoing in my ears.
"I- I don't want to talk about it right now, pretty girl." His smooth voice became rough, his relaxed expression tensing under my scrutiny.
"I'm not mad. I mean, I know you have a problem." Despite the terrible reality that threatened to crash down around us at any second, touching him felt nice. I loved the way his lips parted, his eyebrows raising as if in surprise as I stroked his length.
"I'm a sick fuck, baby."
"You're my sick fuck," I said fondly. "I'm sorry we never talk about your troubles. I want to know more."
"Like . . . now?"
"Yeah," I said softly, drawing my sweater over his lap, my hand beating like hummingbird wings beneath the makeshift blanket. "Like, now."
"I mean . . . it's just that there's some pretty major shit going down right now. I don't want to unload-" His words cut off as a groan tore through him. It was a good thing our flight was under booked. Giving a handjob in public just was poor manners by most people's standards.
"You don't want to unload?" I teased, running my finger over the head of his cock.
He wheezed out a laugh. "You know what I mean."
"Tell me what it's like."
"Bella . . . I can't. Not with you touching my dick."
I stopped moving my hand but didn't break contact. "Go ahead."
He sighed heavily. "It's like . . . it's all I can think about most of the time. It's like being thirsty constantly, but no amount of water can quench it."
"That's rather abstract."
"I know. It makes me uncomfortable . . . talking about it."
"I understand." I cuddled into his chest and added, "You can trust me, you know. I just want you to trust me with your shame the way I trust you with mine."
His head snapped up. "You have nothing to be ashamed of!"
"Neither do you, pretty boy."
-({})-
We sat in a cab outside my mother's house. The lack of police tape encouraged me enough to call my father while the driver, like an asshole, kept the meter running.
"Bella? Where are you?" Anger clipped Charlie's words, but I almost cried with relief at the sound of his voice.
"Where are you?" I evaded.
"The 101 South . . . northern California, I think."
"Dad . . . you can't drive all that way. You can't really kill them. You know that, right?"
He sighed heavily, and I prayed to cod or whatever fish he worshipped that my words were getting through to him.
"I can't just sit back and let him get away with it."
"Please go home. Just turn around and go home."
"I- I can't. Christ, Bells, I need to make that son of a bitch pay! Renee needs to fucking explain herself."
"Dad," I began carefully, "I'm here. I've come to talk to Mom. I'll press charges, and he'll pay for what he did, okay? I swear. But . . ." My throat choked off with tears and a heavy ball of phlegm. "I need you. I need you not to go to prison and stuff."
"You're . . . where are you?"
"Phoenix. Sitting outside of Mom's house." It didn't feel like my house anymore.
"The fuck?" he raged.
"Wait! Don't freak out. Edward's with me."
Charlie made that terrible honking bird sound, and my heart ripped in two.
"Don't cry, Dad."
"Put him on the phone."
"Uhhh . . . " I glanced nervously at Edward.
"What?" he mouthed.
"My father wants to speak with you." I shoved the phone to his ear without warning. "Just talk to him."
Edward made a surprised grunting sound into my phone while I contemplated biting my fingers since the nails were already chewed to the quick.
"Hello, sir," he said politely. Something about his Eddie Haskell demeanour turned me on a bit.
I couldn't hear what Charlie said to him, but Edward's eyes widened in apparent surprise.
"Um, no . . . sorry."
"What did he ask?" I hissed.
"No, sir. I don't . . . but I think I could work a chainsaw if I had to."
Oh my god!
"Well, because my father doesn't condone gun violence . . . er, not that there's anything wrong with hunting."
"Give me the phone!"
Edward raised his index finger for me to wait, and I showed him a different finger in reply.
"Got it . . . yeah, of course . . . no problem. If he goes anywhere near her, I'll aim for his genitals," Edward vowed, wincing. He passed me the phone while I gawked.
"Uh . . . Dad?"
"That Edward seems like a good kid," he said gruffly and cut the line.
-({})-
I lit a cigarette even though I didn't really smoke. Pursing my lips over the filter, I took a shallow drag and knocked on the door.
"Deflection," I muttered under Edward's incredulous glare. "Renee hates cigarettes."
"That's . . . reasonable."
"Like, I dunno . . . maybe she'll yell at me for smoking before we get down to the brass tacks of the whole Phil-abused-me-for-years-and-I-never-"
The door squeaked open, and my jaw fell, the cigarette popping out of my mouth.
I dropped to my knees for no reason that I could think of and stared at a pair of meticulously manicured feet wearing Birkenstocks.
"Hi," I muttered at my mother's big toe.
"Get up," she replied, her voice choking off with . . . I didn't know what. Rage? Sadness, maybe?
I stood, my legs shaking like a baby giraffe taking her fist steps.
Renee. I took in her face bit by painful bit, afraid to face the whole of her too quickly.
Her face seemed redder than usual, weathered like tanned leather. She blinked slowly, glaring at me with those gunmetal blue eyes.
Fear and rage tried to reach my brain, but somehow, the emotions lodged in my chest painfully.
I hated her. I did.
Conversely, I wanted to throw myself into her arms and cry. The deluge of emotions that flooded through me, overtaking my rage, left me dizzy with sorrow.
I wanted her. Despite everything, god fucking help me, I wanted my mommy.
"What do you want, Bella?" She sounded tired rather than cruel.
"You," I stammered honestly. I want you.
She laughed meanly, tears falling in rivulets down the lines of her cheek. "Me?"
"I mean . . ." Fuck! "I don't want you . . . I want . . ."
"How could you, Bella?" she whined with sudden despair. "How could you tell such a filthy, disgusting lie? Phil's career is ruined!"
"Mrs. Swan-"
"Dwyer," Renee snapped at Edward.
"Mrs. Dwyer, Bella didn't lie. How could you accuse her of that? She's your daughter! She's-"
"No," she replied sadly, shaking her head and wiping her nose on her sleeve. "She's not mine anymore."
I'd known.
I knew she'd react like this, but hearing the words . . .
"I'm not . . . yours," I repeated.
"No daughter of mine would do what you did to me."
What I did to her.
"Okay," I whispered. "You don't believe me. Well, you know what? I don't believe you either. I don't believe that you don't know the truth."
"Fuck you!" She stepped back to close the door.
"Wait! I need to tell you two things." I pressed my teeth into my lips trying to keep my voice even. "Two things and then I'll never contact you again."
She didn't reply.
"So, first off . . . don't open the door for Charlie. If you see him, call the police."
"Is that it?" She spoke through gritted teeth.
"No. Also, Phil has a diamond-shaped birthmark on his cock, and he told me you give lousy head."
A/N Happy holidays, whatever you celebrate: Easter, Passover, Toastarianism, etc. Reviews make me happy - I appreciate all comments.