AN: And finally, we reach the moment we've been building towards for six looooong chapters. In case you thought anything before this was superfluous . . .WABAM. Yeah, uh, I'm pretty excited about this chapter. Not gonna lie :)

Playlist is updated, and listed on my profile. Thanks to my kickass beta JosieSwan, who pwns me every day of the week with her awesomeness.

Bella

"You've lost your mind," Alice said flatly, and I felt as if all the crap that I'd brought down on us was finally beginning to show in her voice and in her face. She was pissed, and I wasn't entirely sure she was wrong to be.

"Yes," I agreed. "Definitely."

"Just so you know," she said, and returned to my closet, where she was currently throwing out clothes at an alarming rate. "This would be a lot easier," she continued, grumbling, "if you actually wore something other than jeans and concert t-shirts."

"I thought you didn't care if I wore jeans and t-shirts."

Alice poked her head out of my closet. "I don't care, but since you've decided that the only way you're going to get into his private sanctum is to be mistaken for a groupie, I don't think jeans and t-shirts are going to suffice. At least the jeans and t-shirts you own."

"I don't know if I can even pull groupie off," I confessed, scuffing the edge of my foot against the carpeted floor. "I've never dressed like a groupie in my life."

"Sweetie, your mother is Renee Swan—I don't think you're going to have any trouble."

I sighed. "Yeah, I don't think that's going to help. I don't exactly look like her. I seem to have inherited only my dad's genes."

Alice emerged from the closet again, clutching another handful of what appeared to be random items of clothing that no doubt she would turn into an amazing outfit. "You're wrong," she insisted, setting her finds on the bed, "you're more like your mom than you realize. And I don't just mean physically; your personalities aren't that different, either."

Awkwardly I turned towards the full length mirror on the back of my door and looked at my reflection. When I saw myself, I didn't see the beautiful, polished Renee Swan; I only saw the plain, brown-haired, brown-eyed Bella Swan, with the normal features and the average body.

Truth was, I believed Renee and let her say everything she did, because when I looked in the mirror, I saw what she saw—an ordinary girl who instead of her drop dead gorgeous supermodel mother, looked exactly like her dad.

Alice appeared behind me, just as I was about to turn away, semi-disgusted with my own maudlin remorse than I didn't look more like Renee. If I had looked more like her, it would have been impossible to shoot down the modeling career. It was hard enough as it was. "You're wrong, Bella. Completely wrong. No, you don't have the blonde hair Renee has—or her blue eyes. But you've got her features. Her cheekbones. Her lips. Her skin. You're beautiful in your own, unique way."

"Does this mean," I asked, "that you're okay with what I'm doing?"

Alice laughed and scrunched her face up at me. "Absolutely not. You're still crazy. This is still crazy. Why I'm helping you, I have no idea."

"I could do it myself."

"Yeah, and you'd never be able to figure out how to even begin. You'd show up in jeans and that gray sweatshirt of yours, and be completely shocked why nobody thought you were trying to get into Edward's pants."

"Then you're doing it because I can't do it without you—and because you kinda don't want to be homeless."

Alice had out her favorite pair of sewing shears, and they flashed in the light of the setting sun as she sliced through one of my favorite pairs of jeans. "What are you doing? I loved those!" I shrieked, grabbing them out her hands. Mournfully, I stared at what was left of them—which admittedly wasn't much. When I'd asked Alice to help me look the part so I could get backstage and into see Edward, I hadn't ever really thought about what would entail. Or how little clothing I'd have to wear to pull it off.

She grabbed the jeans back, and the shears sliced again, leaving even less fabric. "You asked, and you're going to get it," she told me unapologetically. "You can still change your mind."

That was the problem though. I couldn't. The more I'd thought about this—which had been all day now—the more right it felt. I had to talk to him about "Aimin' to Misbehave" and how he was moving forward. I had to get the straight story. And the fact that the advertisers would eat up the numbers the story would bring in didn't hurt either.

"No, this is what I need to do," I said firmly, then glanced over at Alice's busy hands. "My god," I exclaimed. "Just make sure I'm not fucking indecent."

Alice lifted an eyebrow. "You want to look like a groupie. I think that's a required part of their dress code—being indecent, that is."

I groaned and flopped down on the bed. "How am I even going to pull this off? I'm not even blonde."

Looking up confused from her sewing, Alice asked, "what does you not being blonde have to do with anything?"

"Edward only likes blondes."

Alice rolled her eyes. "Typical. So that just means you're going to have look so hot it doesn't matter you're a brunette."

"Again. I don't think that's possible."

Alice looked up again, her eyes crafty and sly. "You vastly underestimate me. Wait until I'm done with this skirt."

"That's a skirt?"

Alice held up the postage stamp-sized portion of the jeans she'd just massacred. "Just trust me, it'll be perfect."

Panic lanced through me and I wondered for the hundredth time if I could pull this off—and then I realized that if I didn't, we would be in a very bad place again. I didn't have a choice about whether this worked or not. It just had to. I would make it happen, even if I had to wear a dozen tiny skirts that didn't cover my ass.

"I'm going to go take a shower," I said, thinking I had to get out of here before I watched Alice desecrate more of my clothes in order to make me look like a ho.

Two hours later, I was back in front of the mirror and staring at someone that I hadn't even known existed.

Part of me really wanted Alice to take my picture to use as evidence the next time Renee told me that I wasn't beautiful. Because, with some work and some effort on Alice's part, I was. Alice was an extraordinarily talented girl, but she also had class that went bone-deep, and as much as it was hard to ever imagine myself as a groupie, it was even more completely alien to Alice. So the outfit I was wearing was definitely groupie-material and could probably get me arrested for indecent exposure in most districts, but in some indefinable way, it also managed to hit just south of ho bag.

"Wow," I said softly, letting my hands drift down the cut-off purple tank that made even my white skin glow and the incredibly short, yet perfectly pleated and tattered denim miniskirt. Alice had unearthed a pair of long striped knee socks that screamed schoolgirl, and they added an indefinable edge of corrupted innocence that, as Alice said, "made the outfit."

She'd tamed and teased my hair into a wavy, sexed up mane, and even my makeup, while heavy, only served to emphasize what she insisted were my good features—my cheekbones and my dark eyes.

I might not be a blonde goddess like Rosalie Hale, but I looked damned good regardless. In fact, it was hard for me to believe that the image in the mirror was even me.

"You look amazing," Alice said with a definite edge of self-congratulation in her voice. And who could blame her? I looked nothing like I had only that morning. No gray hoodies in evidence, thank you very much.

"It's almost too bad it's for such a superficial pig," I said ruefully. "I feel like it's kind of a waste."

"Oh, it is. And I almost wish that we could get you to do this all the time—not the micro skirt, of course—but you look so beautiful, Bella. Almost more beautiful than Renee."

I shrugged. "I don't really care enough, but it's nice to know it's there if I ever need to use it." It was true; I felt unreasonably confident tonight. As if I could almost waltz in and make Edward want me. Which, I realized with a sick feeling growing in my stomach, was exactly what I was going to have to do.

Alice wrapped her arms around me and I smiled into her uptilted face. "And that's the Bella I know and love. She's in there somewhere, still."

"Oh, I'm still here. Same Bella, different clothes."

Alice refused to let me enjoy the concert the same way I had the night before.

"No way am I redoing your hair and makeup in that disgusting bathroom," Alice had told her with arms crossed over her chest. "You're going to have to behave and stay out of the mosh pit."

I thought about arguing for a moment, but decided not only was she right on the makeup and hair part, I could far better utilize my time by figuring out how on earth I was going to get backstage to see Edward. What I really needed to do, I decided, surveying the concert venue before Athair went on, was befriend that big, beefy guy who seemed to be Edward's main pimp.

I'd seen him at a few concerts over the last year, and had heard about him from reputation. Maybe if I put in a good word with him, I'd manage to get backstage.

After a few last words of encouragement from Alice, I approached the barrier in front of the stage. At this point, there were only a few fans milling around, waiting for the break to end before Athair went on. I could see the big guy a few feet away, and I sidled up, putting an extra swing in my hips and pasting a sweet, flirtatious smile on that I'd copied from Renee.

"Excuse me," I called to him. "Can I talk to you for a sec?"

At first, he appeared to ignore me, but then I saw him glance at me out of the corner of his eye. I held my breath for a second as the big man took in my appearance from head to toe, and apparently I passed whatever test he'd been using because he sighed and walked over.

"What do you want?" he asked, and I could see the long-suffering annoyance on his face. I could only imagine what working for Edward Cullen was like, and I felt a whole load of pity for this guy.

"Um," I hesitated sweetly, twisting a stray thread on my skirt, "I was wondering if maybe there was any way I could meet Edward. I'm such a huge fan."

His face closed down almost instantly, and I braced for the first round of rejections.

"Do you have a backstage pass? VIP tickets?"

I shook my head regretfully. "No," I simpered. "But I'm such a huge fan of Athair. I just want to talk to him for a minute. Please, is there any way?"

He hesitated again. I could feel him buckling, and I didn't miss his quick glance at my hair. I'd briefly considered even dying my hair blonde for this, but I'd decided against it. Even Edward Cullen couldn't ever make me do that. I just hoped that I looked good enough that this guy would make an exception for my brown hair.

"Sure," he said, "I guess I could make something happen. You seem like a real sweet girl." I could nearly read the thoughts on his face—he thought Edward would also enjoy just how sweet I was. He reached in his pocket for a pad of paper and a pen. "Here, give this to the security at the side door right after the show." Signing the paper with a few indecipherable scribbles, he handed it to me. "They'll let you in."

"Thank you so, so much," I gushed. "It means a lot to me."

"No problem," he shrugged. "Enjoy the show."

I walked back to where Alice stood with a triumphant smile on my face and shared what had just transpired with Edward's security. "I can't believe he gave in so easily," I said, excitement over my conquest leaking into my voice. "I thought for sure he would say no at least the first few times and that I'd have to be more persistent."

Alice sipped her gin and tonic thoughtfully, poking at the slice of lime with her neon pink straw. "Don't you think that's a horrible statement on Edward as a person? He doesn't even care who he screws."

"I never said he was a saint," I grumbled. Even though I knew exactly what he was and what he did, I still didn't like hearing other people judge him for it. "This wouldn't work if he was."

"If he was a saint, he never would have made that godawful album either," Alice pointed out. "We wouldn't even be here, trying this ridiculous stunt."

"Despite its ridiculousness, it's already working," I defended. "I'm going to be able to get backstage."

"When are you going?" Alice asked. "Are you going to wait until after the show?"

"I don't think so. I think I need to be there the second he gets off—he'll need a few minutes to decompress, shower, that sort of thing, before he's bothered by anybody. And I'll need all that time to get him to talk to me."

"And you're sure you can do that." Alice sounded vaguely unsure that I could, and I felt my own doubts rise strong and sickly in my gut, but I had to stay confident I could do this; everything rested on my ability to pull this off.

"Yes," I said with a lot more certainty than I felt. "I can do it. I can be very persuasive."

"Let's hope you can do it with your clothes on," Alice pointed out. "As you said, I don't think he actually talks to women."

"Oh, I'm going to be real clear about that up front. No sex whatsoever."

"Yeah, that'll be a great way to start out. 'I know I'm dressed so that you'll screw me, but I'm just a big cocktease. I only want to pick your brain about your music and about your disastrous, critically-panned last album.' That'll definitely get him to open up."

"You're not helping," I grumbled. "I have a plan. This will work."

"If you say so, Bella," Alice said lightly, but I definitely caught the undercurrent in her voice. It only made me more determined than ever to pull this off, if only to show her that a plan of mine could be successful. I could pull us out of this situation unscathed. I could make sure we didn't lose our apartment and our livelihood.

Just then, the lights darkened and the all-too familiar screaming started, followed by the chords of Boston's "Higher Power." I leaned back against the bar, and watched almost objectively from the back of the venue.

"He's still got the sex appeal," Alice noted from beside me. "I thought maybe I'd think he was less hot after that epic fail, but no. He's still sexy."

"He could be half-dead and still be sexy," I observed.

"Considering you're probably going to have to bludgeon him to death to get him to tell you anything, I think you might be able to put that hypothesis into practice."

I made a face at Alice. "That's not funny."

"Oh but it is," she said almost gleefully. "You're incredibly stubborn and so is he. I would pay to be a fly on the wall when you two meet."

"I don't know what you mean."

"I mean," Alice continued, "that he's not going to take no for an answer, and it's going to be fairly entertaining to watch you try."

"If you say so," I grumbled half to myself. I still thought I could do it. I didn't care if Alice had no faith in me—I had enough faith in me for both of us.

Halfway through the show, I left Alice and made my way to the side of the stage, skirting the writhing mosh pit, my eyes never leaving the stage where Edward held the entire audience in thrall. He was so god damned good, I thought to myself as I showed the scribbled note to the man at the door, it was such an epic waste for him to be such a worthless, drunken womanizer.

The man let me in, all the while eyeing me like a mannequin in a window. I remembered why I hated dressing this way—I liked being treated like more than just a body. But for tonight, the outfit had done its job, and for that, I was grateful.

I didn't want to ask any of the lounging roadies or staff backstage where Edward's dressing room was—mainly because I didn't want to attract unnecessary attention and because I wasn't sure they'd actually tell me. I was terrified of getting escorted out without having my one shot at figuring out what the hell was actually going in Edward Cullen's mind, so I didn't ask and explored instead, peeking down corridors and opening doors at random.

Finally, I found the right one. It had "Edward" scratched across the whiteboard on the door with green marker, and when I opened it, I could see further evidence that this was where he'd been before he went onstage. There were several bottles of booze lying around, some opened and half-consumed. Several guitars laid about, some which I even recognized as his. I looked around for a good five minutes, making sure that there wasn't anything I could learn to better prepare me to write this article, but it seemed all very generic rockstar.

So I settled down on the couch to wait for his royal rock highness to finish the set.

The door flew open and slammed against the opposite wall with a sharp, loud thud. I was picking at yet another unraveling thread on my "skirt," and my gaze lifted to meet a pair of angry, insolent green eyes. The king, I thought with a sudden horrible flurry of butterflies, had returned.

"Who the fuck are you?" Edward asked, stalking over to the table behind me that held a selection of whiskey bottles. He unscrewed one hard and fast, throwing the cap on the floor, and leaned back against the wall, openly eyeing me up and down as he held the bottle to his lips. I had a distinct, unsettling feeling as he looked at me that his question was merely rhetorical. He didn't care who I was, and he didn't ask what I was there for—because he already knew.

I stood, smoothing my skirt down, hoping that it's time on the couch hadn't wrinkled it so badly that my whole ass was now showing. "Hi, I'm Bella." I self-consciously held my hand out to him and he just looked at it with a semi-amused expression, like he couldn't actually believe I'd just introduced myself to the high priest of groupie-fuckers.

Really, I couldn't believe I had either. This, I told myself angrily, was not a fucking job interview.

"Nevermind," he continued before I could open my mouth to correct myself. "It doesn't even matter. Take off your clothes."

"Uh," I hedged. "Um. Well. Actually . . ." I'd really been hoping that I'd have at least one fucking minute to talk before he got down and dirty. Or rather, before he expected me to get down and dirty. Apparently he didn't even give a girl a chance to get acquainted. My personal opinion of Edward Cullen, already at a precariously low position, dipped even further.

He looked back up at me with that same partially amused expression, but this time it was coupled with a distinct narrowing of those green eyes. He wasn't happy, I realized. I would have to get him happy real quick before he called that big guy in here to go find a girl that would put out as fast as he wanted her to.

"Yes. Right. Taking off my clothes." I glanced down and it hit me fast and hard in the gut just how little I'd have to remove to follow his directive. Not good, Bella.

He was still leaning against the wall, his sweat-soaked t-shirt clinging to his chest and abs, his jeans riding low with a Celtic knot belt buckle resting nearly over his clearly-aroused package. I gulped. The next time Renee told me that I wasn't beautiful, I was going to have to pull out this adventure as evidence that she was wrong. I'd managed to turn on Edward Cullen, who'd seen pretty much everything that a girl had to offer, probably millions of times. And he liked what he saw in me. Or maybe, I thought speculatively, it didn't even matter anymore. A blowup doll would probably suffice at this point.

He cleared his throat, and I realized he was still waiting for the clothes removal process to begin. Yeah, about that. . .I wasn't entirely sure I could pull this off after all. It was one thing to think positively when I was sitting in here alone; it was a different proposition entirely to be faced with the admittedly fuckhot Edward Cullen.

I decided to try a diversionary tactic.

"So I didn't know you liked Boston. . ." I said, toying with the waistband of my skirt in the hopes that he would find this G-rated entertainment exciting. It would at least be novel, right?

His eyes narrowed even more, and even that amused expression had evaporated off his face. Now, he was just beginning to look. . .disgusted. Crap.

"I mean, the band, not the city. Obviously My dad, he used to love them." I laughed nervously, horribly, acutely aware that I was failing monumentally over here.

Edward looked decidedly unamused now—he'd now morphed into a mixture of annoyance and boredom. And just when I thought that I'd overstayed my welcome, and he was about to order security to throw me out, Edward uncoiled himself from the wall and walked towards me, his boots making hard clicking sounds on the concrete floor. I felt frozen in place, hypnotized by those green eyes. I was reminded by what Alice and I had talked about earlier tonight about how he could be half dead and still fuckhot—and she'd been so right. I'd spent so many years mooning over pictures of him and even sweaty and wrecked from the night's show, he was almost inhumanely beautiful—a panther stalking his prey.

And unfortunately, I was the prey. He stopped in front of me, and reached out for a single strand of my hair, winding it around his finger. "You," he whispered huskily, "won't take your clothes off. So I'm going to have to do it for you then."

I gasped as his hot, damp hand settled on my waist, digging into my bare flesh, and I couldn't help the shiver that went up my spine. "Um, I don't know. . ." I found myself hesitating. I'd thought for so long that girls would have to be insane to succumb to Edward's advances when they knew what he was and what he was about, but being here with him made me realize just how irresistible he really was.

He was magnetic and charming and an asshole. "You're beautiful," he crooned, pulling me against him, his lips coasting up the side of my neck. "And you'll be even more beautiful without any clothes on."

At that moment, I actually believed the crap he was doling out like it was candy. I felt myself falling, sliding painlessly under the spell he wove with his murmured words in my ear, the fingers that sank hungrily into my flesh, the smell of his sweat on his skin. "Trying to play the innocent? I don't believe it."

Edward's lips slid down the column of my neck, insistently moving the edge of my tank until his teeth grazed my collarbone. I couldn't help the shiver that built at the base of my spine. He was ridiculously good at this, but I suppose I shouldn't be all that surprised--he'd done it with countless women over the years. Was it so wrong to briefly enjoy his expertise? I felt his hands insistently caressing the skin of my stomach, moving higher and higher, tracing invisible swirls and circles. My eyes opened up to his, and I could see every intention in his eyes. I should say no, I should turn away, but I felt unbearably mesmerized by how good his body felt against mine.

So I moved closer, desperately trying to drown out the loud voice in my head that told me that he didn't care about me at all, and I just felt. His fingers insistent and drugging on my skin. His lips caressing my neck, the ridge of my jaw, and my breath exhaled in a shaky breath as he finally found my mouth, more gently than I'd ever imagined that Edward Cullen could--because let's face it, I'd imagined it more than once or twice. He kissed me almost. . .tenderly. . .I thought with amazement, and then he deepened the kiss and I stopped thinking at all. I couldn't help it; I simply fell head over heels into the spell he wove around me.

I was lost until I felt his jeans abrade the skin of my legs, and the sensation--coupled with the insistent rubbing of his hard cock--jerked me out of the spell I'd been under. I'd been so close to just being one in a list so long it didn't have a beginning—or an end. Edward Cullen was the master seducer. I had been incredibly stupid to forget that even for a second. "Yes," I said, pushing him away much more forcefully than I'd intended. "Believe it."

His eyes deepened from clear grass green to something darker, stormier. Something, I realized when I glanced closer, decidedly more pissed off.

"Not only am I not used to having to work for it—after all, that's your job—I'm also not used to fucking Brits weaseling their way backstage to my concerts," Edward sneered at me, his face scrunched up as if I suddenly had a rancid smell.

"What?" I'd been sure that he'd be pissed I hadn't put out like he was expecting, but I certainly hadn't expected him to be angry that my parents had been English. In fact, I was shocked he'd even caught the barest trace of the accent in my voice. After leaving Manchester and moving to Beverly Hills to live with my mother and Dr. Phil, I'd hated how my strong accent had made sure I stood out in every single class. So I'd spent my 13th summer taking diction classes to rid myself of what I no longer wanted. In retrospect, I'd probably been using ditching the accent to substitute for ridding myself of all the pain after my dad's death. England, at least at that age, had held all kinds of painful memories and I'd wanted nothing more to do with it. As a result, most people had no idea I was even British because the accent only came out a little when I was scared or upset or nervous—which was exactly why Edward had been able to hear it tonight.

"You're fucking British," he snarled again. "Get the fuck out of here. I don't want no dirty Brits smelling up the place."

I couldn't help it; I gaped at him. I'd never seen anyone go so quickly from seduction to utter hatred. And all because of a few harmless syllables. I saw my dream of #457 Pt 2 dissipating in front of my eyes and I snatched desperately at whatever hope I had left.

"So what exactly do you have against us Brits?" I asked, watching as he retreated back to the whiskey bottle.

"And now she sounds perfectly fucking normal," he muttered, clearly displeased I was still here. But he wasn't calling security yet, which meant that I still had time to salvage this.

"Answer me." Even if I got one piece of dirt, this whole horror of an evening might be worth it. Maybe.

"She's hot like a groupie, but talks like she's got a brain—when she's not being British that is. What the fuck are you?" To my shock, he almost looked intrigued, as if he actually cared what I was.

"I told you already," I said, moving towards him again. Going back on the offensive. I'd spluttered out earlier, letting him get the upper hand, but now the shock of his anger had catapulted me back into sanity. I was going to grab this with both hands—grab him with both hands—and force him to confess his deepest, darkest secrets. His musical secrets. "I'm Bella Swan."

"My worst fucking nightmare." I advanced on him further, moving closer I could nearly feel the heat radiating off him. The power in the room, with him from the moment he'd entered, began to shift my direction and I clung to it like a drowning woman at sea.

"Oh, you have no idea. Shall we start with 'Foreplay' or perhaps maybe 'The Rag Rag'? Which would you prefer?"

To give him credit, he only looked marginally shocked. I'd been expecting the declaration of my intentions to grill him about his last disastrous album to be a lot more surprising, but he'd held it together pretty well. However, he did look pretty fucking pissed. I could see his adam's apple working hard, as he gulped down several more swallows of whiskey, then his hot, angry eyes bored into me. "You want to fuck that bad? Okay, we can do that. As long as you stay absolutely fucking silent."

"You'd still fuck me, even though I'm British." It came out as a statement instead of a question—unfortunately I was beginning to figure out just how perverted this man was.

"Sweetheart, I'd fuck just about anyone, even the Queen herself."

I swiped his whiskey bottle, and raised it to my lips, letting some of the alcohol slide down my throat. It warmed my nervous stomach and gave me enough false courage that I could continue to meet his hot, confrontational stare. "So I've heard."

"And tonight you wanted it to be you."

I laughed in his face. "Try again. I need you to tell me about your last album. Tell me why it was such an epic failure. Tell me how you're moving on."

Edward's lips slammed together into a grimace. "Didn't you get the rider? You're not allowed to bring up that shitfest within ten feet of me."

Now we were finally getting somewhere. I liked having Edward pinned, right where I wanted him. Like a butterfly struggling on a pin. I was going to gut him, metaphorically of course, and watch every single one of his secrets spill gruesomely to the floor.

"So you admit it was terrible, then?"

He shrugged, stealing the bottle back and taking a few more sips. Okay, they were more like gulps. I had a feeling that it was the subject of our conversation that he didn't like—or maybe it was me. Either one, he definitely wasn't comfortable. I zeroed in for the kill. "It got the worst reviews of any album all year. Some critics even thought it was one of your sick jokes. But it wasn't, was it? You were just too busy drinking and whoring to write some decent music."

He said nothing, just stared at me, like I was an alien from a strange planet—or maybe it was because I was British. Who knew at this point?

I opened my mouth to tell him that he had potential and to ask him what he was going to do to prevent squandering the rest of it away, but a knock on the door prevented me from speaking. Edward glowered at me one last time, and then walked around me to open the door. I wondered if it was the security guy, and if Edward had called him without me being aware.

It was the big guy; I heard his deep baritone as Edward answered the door, but instead of stepping aside so he could remove the fly in his ointment—namely, me—he opened the door a bit wider, and I saw them in an intense and quiet discussion that I couldn't quite overhear. I shifted closer, not wanting to draw attention my presence and stop their conversation before I could properly eavesdrop.

And that's when I saw the big guy whip out a needle from his pocket and jam it into Edward's arm. I think I gasped, but then that might have been Edward, who collapsed seconds later. It was only then that the man looked up and realized that I was there.

Shit.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" he asked in harsh tones as he pushed Edward's prostrate body into the room and shut the door behind him. I moved backwards, almost tripping over the couch, in an desperate attempt to get away before he tried to kill me too.

"Did you do that on purpose?" I stuttered. "Did he want you to shoot him up?"

"You mean, is he a prescription drug addict as well as being a moody, angsty, alcoholic asshole? No," he said almost wryly. "And again, what the fuck are you doing here?"

I felt myself panicking and tried to take a few deep breaths. "You knew I would be here!"

"Actually no. I thought you'd be here much later—after I'd already taken him."

"You're going to take him?" My voice rose with my mounting hysterical panic and I realized that I was in way, way over my head. "Why would you want to do that?"

The man chuckled again, and picked up Edward as if he was made of air instead of being a dead weight. "I know, right? Why would anyone want this lousy excuse for a man? I wondered the same thing. But I don't ask questions. I just do what they tell me."

"And what is that, exactly?" I demanded. "Where you taking him?"

"You could say I'm taking him to meet some old friends."

"Does he know you're taking him?" I wasn't exactly sure why I was asking Big Guy all these questions. After all, Edward Cullen didn't exactly deserve someone to ask them, but I couldn't help myself.

"Not exactly, no." He propped Edward up on the couch and carefully made sure his head wasn't tilted at an unnatural angle. His actions seemed to prove both that he was a crazy weirdo and that he also cared about Edward, all of which added up to something that made no sense. Unfortunately, I was about as curious as I was stubborn.

"Then that's kidnapping," I said, and didn't want for him to answer. "So you're kidnapping Edward Cullen. In front of me."

Big man turned towards me, but I didn't feel any fear—only a terrible, addictive adrenaline pumping through my veins. "You can just pretend you didn't see me. I promise, no harm is going to come to him. Some old friends just want to see him. Have a little chat with him."

"And I'm assuming he doesn't know that these friends are requesting his illustrious presence?"

"What do I have to do to make sure you stay quiet?" he asked finally, rising to stand in front of me. We stared each other down for a second, and a horrible, terrible, absolutely fucking brilliant plan began to form inside my mind.

"I'll keep quiet," I said, hesitating. Was I crazy enough to do this? To say this? I wasn't crazy enough, I decided—just desperate enough. Desperate enough to do whatever needed to be done to make my blog a success and to finally escape from under my mother's pernicious influence.

"I'll keep quiet," I repeated, " but only if you take me with you."

That was clearly the last thing he was expecting me to say. "Take you with me? With me and Edward? You've got to be kidding." He laughed, high and nervous, and I realized he was sweating. He wasn't exactly a kidnapping professional, I decided. This smacked of amateur kidnapping, and was therefore more safe than something say, more Mafioso.

"Or else I tell everyone that you took him. If he's just going to meet some old friends, it won't be a big deal. I won't be in the way. And I'll have all the time I need to question him."

He ran a hand through his hair and hesitated. "I don't know. . .I . . ."

I flipped my cell phone out of my pocket and began to dial 911, calling his bluff. "The offer stands for the next fifteen seconds. You take me with you or I'm calling the cops."

"I could just grab your phone and break your neck," he pseudo-threatened, but again, I didn't feel a single bit of fear. This guy was sweet and jovial and nice. He wasn't a killer or a thug. He wouldn't touch a hair on my head. Now Edward's on the other hand. . .

"You swear to me you'll keep quiet if I just let you come with us?"

"I swear."

"Fine. But, you're in charge of booze boy over there. He's probably going to wake up puking and it'll be your job to keep him quiet. Now we're running late and we need to get out of here before anyone else suspects anything. Follow me."

"Where are we going?" I asked as the man swept up Edward in his arms like he weighed nothing.

"Insider information wasn't part of our deal. Like it or not, you're along for the ride now."

HOLY SHIT. sorry. couldn't help that.

Tonight at 7 PM EST, I am hosting a #readalong of the story that influenced me SO MUCH as an AH writer--and just a writer in general--The Teenage Angst Brigade by the fuckamazing jandco. Follow me on twitter at bethaboo555 and enjoy this amazing story with me :)