AN: Yay for early posting! I'm at my mommy's and we're going to watch Dancing with the Stars, so yeah. . .good news for y'all.

Thanks to JosieSwan for being an awesome beta and you should read her story, In the Shadow of Ursa Major. It's wonderful :)

Playlist updated on my profile.

Edward

I had been waiting for this day for a really fucking long time; the day when all of my father's baggage would end up on my doorstep. I'd only caught the smallest glimpse of the flag earlier, and that had been hours before, but I felt as if it was burned onto my retinas. Even with my eyes closed, I could see it flapping in the breeze, taunting me with everything that my father had been—and everything that I could never be.

I'd believed that I'd long since made peace with the fact that he'd been devoted to a cause that he'd died for, and that instead of me martyring myself equally, I stood on a stage, singing songs that could be construed as only vaguely emblematic of what he believed in. I let my head drop into my hands, resting on my knees, and wished that when this moment came, I felt marginally more ready to face the men who had stood by him on his final day. Instead, all I felt was a deep, gnawing sense of inequality and something almost shameful. I'd always believed, falsely maybe, that I'd been doing his memory a service by singing what I did. But, when suddenly faced with the possibility of answering for what I'd done, all I wanted to do was disown the past. All of it.

If I'd had any doubts that this was potentially serious, they'd been dispelled when I'd seen the Red Hand of Ulster. Brit Bitch hadn't known it was serious until Emmett had locked us into the small room we sat in now, and I remembered the small panicked sound she'd been unable to totally muffle. I'd seen her frightened gaze drift from the bare, stripped floors, to the plain cot with bare mattress, up to the bars on the high windows, and I knew she'd seen the room for what it was.

A fucking jail cell.

Like it or not, we were now imprisoned together. And, unsurprisingly, neither of us liked it very much.

She'd been silent since Emmett had shut and locked the door on us, his face grim and determined. The windows were boarded over and there was no light, so we'd been sitting in the dark for what could have been hours now. I'd wordlessly conceded the bed to her, a strangely gentlemanly act for me. I didn't like her—in fact, it was entirely probable I hated her, but I couldn't help but feel a tiny bit sorry for her. She'd thought she was going to get the scoop of a lifetime, and instead, she was going to be lucky if she came out of this unscathed.

As for myself, I felt coldly sober for the first time in what must have been weeks. It had been probably twelve hours since I'd had any alcohol to numb the circus of my reality, and now, I thought as I opened my eyes into the dark hole of the room and felt something deep and dark and far too painful begin to surge inside me, I knew I needed the anesthetic power of it more than ever.

I felt her eyes on me, which wasn't really a surprise, because the Brit Bitch was always watching, but not the way some girls stared at me. She clearly didn't want to fuck me; instead, she looked at me as if she'd like to peel my skin back like an orange, and watch my secrets scatter to the floor.

"The Red Hand of Ulster," she stated, not questioned, her voice small and unsure. "What is that exactly?"

"Didn't do your journalistic research, huh?" I felt stripped of my usual defenses, and the witty, snappy comeback was all I had left to fight with.

She took a deep breath, and let it out slowly, unevenly. Despite that I was pretty sure I hated her fucking guts, I had to give her a little credit—most girls would have been hysterical by now. As far as I could tell, she hadn't even shed a tear yet. But that, I decided, didn't necessarily mean she was brave. Since she was British, it was more likely she was just cold and unfeeling. Hard all the way through.

And she would have to be, I thought, to be here. To deal with all of this shit. Maybe it was better this way; worked in her favor that she didn't have a marshmallow soft core that I'd have to go to bat to protect. I wasn't her white knight and she wasn't my damsel to rescue. She'd gotten herself into this mess, and she'd have to get herself out.

"I did, but there's this great big. . .blank when it comes to your past. I don't even think that Edward Cullen is your real name."

"Bingo," I said wryly. "And blank is the way it's going to stay."

"You didn't just magically appear. Someone, somewhere created you. Two someones, in fact."

I turned towards her, the darkness no doubt hiding the anger in my expression, but she couldn't help but hear it in my voice. "Thanks for the biology lesson, Brit Bitch. Perhaps you'd like to give me a real life demonstration?"

Walls, I thought to myself, bricks made of nasty words and mortar made of sarcasm. I laid them down as hard and fast as I was able. I hated this terrible, aching vulnerability, and I hated even more that she was here to witness it. Of course, it was more likely than not that she had no idea I felt at all. Which was exactly the idea.

"No, thank you," she said so stiffly I wouldn't be surprised if she had a pole sticking up her ass all the way up to her chin.

"Seriously, I think it's possible that your pussy is in danger of molding over. You ever take it out to play?"

I felt rather than saw the glare that she shot my direction. "You know, I don't expect any consideration or kindness," she said bitterly, "but that was really low, even for you."

I metaphorically rubbed my hands together in anticipatory glee at how low I could really drag her. She thought we were at rock bottom, but she had no idea how much farther she could slide. Once you started, after all, it was all just a slippery slope.

"You really want to know about the Red Hands of Ulster?"

She hesitated, the shadows of the room dancing across the planes of her face. I'd thought she was pretty fucking hot when I'd walked in after the show and found her sitting on the couch like a fucking present. But now, she just looked young and naïve. And cold. Like an ice princess.

I was just going to play with her a little at first, I decided, just to give myself something to do so that the boredom wouldn't eat me alive. Or maybe so I wouldn't have to think about what awaited me here. Destiny was a difficult thing to correctly categorize, after all, and I didn't feel much like agonizing over it.

I was Edward Cullen, and I didn't fucking agonize over shit.

"Come here," I ordered, but she didn't reply. Just sat there in silence, looking at me with the blankest, coldest expression she'd worn yet.

"Well?" I demanded. "Did you hear me or are you suddenly deaf as well as dumb?"

"I'm not your slave," she snapped out.

"You will be." It was cocky as hell, but I knew that if I wanted to bother, I could have her eating out of my hand in no time. There were no distractions here, except that deep gnawing worry that we were ultimately screwed, and there was nothing like a good healthy dose of old-fashioned fear to drive a young, vulnerable girl into the arms of a big, strong man.

Nevermind that the big strong man was also locked up and had no intention of playing rescuer. And that I was sure that once the Red Hands actually arrived, there wouldn't be any question of me staying in here with her. My father had been one of them, and they wouldn't betray his memory by treating me like a prisoner. I was the prodigal son, finally come home.

"Hell will freeze over first." She didn't sound quite as convinced, though, and I was still confident I'd be able to wear her down. After all, it wasn't like she could run away.

I let her ponder that for a few minutes in the black hole of silence that was our jail cell. There was nothing like feeling utterly alone to force you to cling to the only human contact available. And, let's face it, while she wasn't exactly Rosalie Hale, she didn't look half bad at this point. I was kind of notorious for fucking anything female that moved, and well, while I wasn't exactly proud of it, I had spent a majority of the car ride checking out her legs. Plus, there was something sick and yet ironically right about breaking her and bending her to my will.

"So you came along for information. From me. Considering what you've already done to get it, I wonder what you'd still do for a few choice morsels. About the Red Hands, for example." I lowered my voice to a hushed, gravely whisper and carefully, silently scooted closer to the bed. Her pale outstretched legs gleamed in the small shafts of moonlight from the upper windows.

I heard her lick her lips once, her tongue snaking out and wetting the dry surface. "I don't know what you mean," she said, and I could hear just how unsure she was. I was almost disappointed at how easy it had been to force her to relent. I'd expected better from her.

"I'll tell you," I clarified. "For a price."

One, two, three beats passed, the room so completely silent that I swore I could hear my heart thumping with anticipation. "Fuck you," she snarled suddenly. "I'll never be your fucking whore. Go to hell."

"You're already there, sweetheart," I laughed mercilessly. "And in case you think this is the lowest you've sunk, we're just getting started."

One, I counted silently in my head.

Two.

Three.

"I'd rather rot and die first," she said, and it was so horribly predictable, I almost rolled my eyes. I decided I'd have to do something out of the box to jar a different reaction out of her. Outrage was so classic and so fucking boring.

"You're not trying very hard," I sighed. "You've got to insult me and actually mean it."

"Oh, I do," she insisted sarcastically. "I mean every fucking word. I hate you. I wasn't sure I did before, but I really think you've managed to win me over for good."

"Oooooh," I marveled with fake interest, "you mean to say that at one point, you were actually what you claimed to be—a fan?"

"Guilty as charged." She stopped, hesitated, and I forced myself to wait her out. The goods were sometimes worth a little hard-won patience. I just hoped she was going to bring a gruesome enough confession to make it worth my while.

When she spoke again, her voice was low and so quiet I had to strain to hear her even in the totally silent house. "When I was 12, my dad died. We lived together, before, in Manchester. My mom. . .she wasn't exactly around much."

She drifted off, as if she was suddenly lost in her own thoughts and in what it had felt like to lose him. I would have asked her, except I already knew. At least, I thought with a burning vindictiveness, she'd known him for the twelve years.

I opened my mouth to make some crack about her dad being British and therefore not exactly being a total loss when a sudden, acidic pain sliced me deep.

Jesus fucking Christ, I thought, almost reaching for my stomach, where I was sure I was bleeding. Except that it hadn't been real—I'd only imagined it the blood pumping hot and sticky and wet from my gut. Inexplicably I hated her even more for bringing up the one subject that I couldn't seem to shake since coming to this place—the past. And not just the recent past, filled with groupies and whiskey and nights of hot, endless pleasure. Instead, her words were a sharp, stinging slap of reality, just as the flag had been. There was a past that I'd buried because I didn't want to face it, but at the same time, I'd never been able to escape.

"He died," she continued, and I heard her swallow hard, and I glanced over to see her throat working a little. Maybe I'd see a tear fall and know that Brit Bitch wasn't quite made of stone after all. "I went to live with my mother and her new husband in California. I was miserable, and your music saved me."

"You have good taste then," I replied gruffly. For all I was convinced that I was the second coming of Jimi Hendrix, listening to such unvarnished respect for what my music had been was hard. Hard because I was pretty damn sure that I'd managed to annihilate all that respect by now.

"I did, yes. But not anymore." She looked up at me then, eyes intent on my face, and I saw she'd scooted closer to the edge of the bed, until she could almost reach out and touch my arm. "I still like this washed up singer and his even more washed up band."

"I'm not washed up," I growled at her. "And neither is Athair. Not even fucking close."

She shrugged, her thin shoulders moving against the tattered thin purple tank she wore. "You're getting there. It'll happen eventually."

I wanted to gnash my teeth and yell at her and throw something and insist she take it back, but then I remembered that her opinion, no matter how shitty, didn't fucking matter. She was just a bitchy, ice cold girl who couldn't write her way out of a paper bag.

I decided I'd been wrong to try to bait her. All that would do was prove to her that even in some small way, I cared about what she thought—even if I only cared enough to destroy her. Apathy was a much better emotion to strive for, I concluded. I would simply ignore her. Watch her stew and sulk in the silence of the empty room and see how long it would take her to go fucking mad with loneliness and boredom.

It could have been hours later, when the door finally opened, and I heard Bella squeak with surprise as a wedge of light flooded the room. Because the windows were covered, it was impossible to even tell the time of day, but from the brief glimpse of sunlight, I thought it might have been the middle of the afternoon.

"You need to get cleaned up," Emmett said to me gruffly, and held a hand out to help me to my feet. Yes, he'd taken me from my meaningless existence without my permission, but then, if he'd asked for it, I would have run as far as I could. Not necessarily from the men themselves, but from the ideals that they represented—the legacy they thought I would fulfill. Really, I could be angry at him, or I could just deal with the fact that he'd brought me here and I no longer had a choice about my whereabouts.

Escape, I thought, was pointless. There was nowhere I could go where the Red Hands wouldn't find me eventually.

So I took his hand and allowed him to help me to my feet. Emmett turned to Bella, who was poised at the edge of the bed as if she'd like to make a run for it. Unfortunately, we both knew that wasn't going to happen.

"You stay here. I'll come get you in a minute."

She slumped back onto the bed, and I could see the hopelessness warring with relief that she too would be allowed access to the bathroom. Emmett might be a backstabbing dick, but at least he was a humane one.

"You know," Emmett started, but I held up a hand as we exited the room.

"I know what you're going to say. I won't run. I won't even try. So don't worry about it."

He shook his head, clearly surprised by my total acquiescence. "And here I thought it was hard to kidnap people."

"Not hard when you kidnap someone who doesn't care." The last thing I wanted to tell him was that now that the moment had come for me to come to terms with my father's past, I wasn't about to turn away. I was filled with a twisted and inexplicable need to drive the knife into me as far as it would go. And I couldn't do that if I ran away.

Despite what I'd said, Emmett still stood guard outside the tiny bathroom door as I peed and showered and brushed my teeth. The dried sweat on my skin had been itchy, and while I'd resented Bella's comment about me smelling, I didn't think she was entirely off the mark. Personal hygiene was a sore point with me, and I was glad that Emmett wasn't going to be a jerk about letting us have a little private time. As much as I wanted to torture Brit Bitch, I also didn't want to have to take a dump in front of her.

There was a clean pair of jeans and another t-shirt. I couldn't help but notice that while Emmett provided me a pair of socks, there were no shoes. Whether he believed me or not, he certainly wasn't going to take any risks, and I wasn't sure if I blamed him. I didn't know much about the Red Hands, but from their reputation, I knew that they didn't precisely appreciate changes to their well-laid plans. If Emmett let me escape, they wouldn't be too pleased. I had a feeling that adding Bella to the mix was going to cause enough problems as it was.

I opened the bathroom door and steam escaped out. Emmett was standing there still, his arms crossed over his broad chest. "You done?" he asked.

I nodded and then hesitated. I wanted to ask, but I didn't want him to think that I cared at all what would happen to Bella. She'd asked herself along, after all, and so what happened to her was none of my concern. But I couldn't help the question that escaped me. Thank god she wasn't in hearing distance, or I would never have voiced the concern.

"You're going to let Bella. . ." I trailed off, hating that I cared enough to ask. It was only humane, I told myself. She was a human being; not an animal. Kidnapped or not.

"Of course," Emmett said, leading me back to the room and retrieving Bella. He watched her carefully as she slid off the bed and the door closed behind them, leaving me again in the dark.

As I sat back against the wall, stretching my legs in front of me, I tried in vain not to think of what she was doing at this very moment. My mind—and my dick for that matter—had different ideas. Even if I found her personality fundamentally fucking unpalatable, she was still attractive, and I couldn't help but letting my thoughts drift towards her naked in the shower, water beading on her naked skin.

The ensuing visions were so stimulating—hell, she had lovely skin, all white and soft—that I was a few notches above worked up when the door opened again.

Her hair was still damp and fell around her clean, makeup free face in dark, limp waves. Her clothes were the same—clearly Emmett hadn't been prepared to clothe her as well as myself—but they were neater, straightened, and if it was even possible, the outfit was even hotter now than it had been before.

It made no sense, but since this whole fucking thing made no sense, I suppose I shouldn't have been all that surprised that I was harder for her than ever. And she walked past me, nose in the air, face expressionless, as if I didn't even exist.

Even though I'd decided to play this very same game with her, it still rankled when she did it to me. She'd forced Emmett to bring her so that she could interrogate me about my music, but now had decided to give up on any extracting any useful information? I decided that was just bullshit and I was going to call her on it. She was just angry I'd been ignoring her and was attempting to freeze me out in a moronic attempt to punish me.

But I was Edward Cullen, and I had something she wanted desperately. We both knew it—I just had to remind her of that small fact.

I was standing up when another fact hit me. I had something she wanted, and while I might hate it, she also possessed something that was of some basic interest. Maybe, I thought, as I got to my feet, and walked the few steps to where she sat at the end of the bed, brushing through her damp hair with her fingers, it was time to do some bargaining.

"Feels good to be clean, doesn't it?" I asked casually, as if being kidnapped and dragged into the middle of nowhere was an everyday occurrence for me.

Bella looked up in surprise, as if she was completely astonished that we were still in the same room together. She might be a bitch, I decided, but she wasn't half bad as an actress. "I guess," she said noncommittally.

She could pretend she didn't want to talk all she wanted to, but I knew better. "So I've been thinking," I began, and she cut me right off, like a hatchet to the knees.

"Well that must have been a unique experience for you." After the cutting remark, she went right back to her hair, as if it was the most interesting thing in the entire fucking room. I was beginning to get annoyed, but decided to mask it and channel my frustration into getting her fucking attention.

"Would I know your blog?" I asked again.

She looked up wide-eyed and surprised. "Um, hell no. It's not exactly on top of everyone's radar."

"Which is why you need this," I finished smoothly, her desperation beginning to make a hell of a lot more sense.

She shrugged, again pretending to not be all that interested in the conversation we were only kind of having. "I wrote a terrible review of your last album. It was apparently rather inadvertently hilarious, and became kind of an underground sensation. But the rest of the blog is terrible."

I wanted to be offended that she'd capitalized off my epic fail of an album—fuck, I was offended—but that particular emotion wouldn't get me anywhere. So I kept my mouth shut about it, no matter how much I was dying to tear her self-worth into tiny pieces.

"I thought," she continued, scooting backwards until her back hit the wall, "that maybe if I was really careful to keep the blog totally impersonal, totally objective, it would make it better somehow. That it would legitimize it. But instead, it's just boring as hell."

"Music isn't objective," I said, being probably far nicer than I needed to be. I sat down on the edge of the bed, a careful enough distance from her that she wouldn't feel threatened. I intended to get a lot closer, but she was a bit skittish, and I didn't want to push her away. "You can't force it to be."

"I know," she said, looking down at her skirt and picking at section of fraying threads. "I'm just not sure what to do instead."

"You'll figure it out. After all, you seem to be pretty fucking determined."

"That's true enough," she replied wryly. "I was determined enough to make it happen, even though in the end my plan was a total disaster. You haven't told me a thing, and I'm not dumb enough to think that you will."

There was my opening. I wanted to jump all over it, but I knew human nature better than to appear too eager. Let her think that I was just as hesitant as she would be.

"Well," I said slowly, "that's not entirely true. I might relax those rules just a little."

Her reaction proved that in the last twenty four hours she'd begun to figure out who the real Edward Cullen was. "And what do I have to do?"

I couldn't help but smirk at her. It was good to be so predictable, especially in this. "I have a little bargain in mind. A trade, you could say."

"And what would that be?" She looked downright suspicious, which confirmed my hunch that she was way too intelligent for her own good—or for mine.

"I have something you want—namely, information. About Athair, about me, about the music. And you have something I want . . ." I trailed off, letting my eyes sweep up her outstretched legs, past the tiny denim skirt, to the purple tank top that exposed more than it hid.

"No," she answered quickly and immediately, but there wasn't much fire or heat in the words. "Absolutely no."

I shrugged. "Suit yourself. The offer stands, though, however long we're in this godforsaken room."

"I don't need time to think about it. The answer's always going to be no." Her voice was clipped, but not offended. Despite her words, I knew she'd think about it—after all, she had nothing but time to sit here and consider all the possibilities. And while she might pretend to be a frigid, sexless bitch now, I'd had my hands on her at the House of Blues, and she'd been hot and ready for me to do whatever I wanted with her. It was only a matter of time before she gave in to the inevitable.

A lot of speculation about the Red Hands of Ulster. No, they are not a real group, but in 2010, despite the Troubles being publically over, there are still rogue, splinter groups of the IRA functioning and almost all of them are militaristic and dangerous. The Red Hands (name taken from the flag), are a group like these. You will find out more about them in upcoming chapters.

I've signed up to donate an outtake of this story for the Nashville Relief efforts. You donate a minimum of $5 and get a wonderful array of stories, one shots and outtakes from your favorite authors. I've already started the outtake--and I think it's going to be a really interesting background to the story. I will eventually be posting it here, but probably not until July or August.