AN: I profusely apologize for this massive delay. It's cruel of me to write such an epic fail chapter, and then not update for almost two months. However, this proved to be hard to write, harder than I ever anticipated. Now that I'm over the hump, I don't think I'll have that same kind of writer's block again. I have to thank my darling Izzzyy for holding my hand multiple times (I really needed it), and for being a beta extraodinaire.
The song that Edward writes this chapter is one of my all time favorites: "Radio" by Alkaline Trio.
Chapter 33: The Album
Edward
I watched Bella as she drove away, the flame of hope slowly but inevitably dying out in her brown eyes. She thought I was heartless; unable to feel even the most basic of human emotions. Fuck, I'd have agreed with her only twenty-four hours ago, but while my face remained frozen with apathy, inside a flaming volcano of feelings erupted, too powerful to push back. The irony being, of course, that Bella had left—left me—because I'd as good as confessed that any feelings she had were completely one-sided. That I didn't even have feelings.
If she could only fucking feel me now, I seethed as I wrenched the front door back open. I paused, the obnoxiously happy sounds of the party cutting through the Pandora's box inside me. I tried to shove all the annoying feelings back down; tried to remember what it was like not to feel, but I couldn't it anymore.
Fuck this.
I wasn't going to subject myself to this, no way. Not right now. Slamming the door behind me instead of going inside, my boots crunched on the gravel of the driveway as I walked towards the main road. The dust was still floating in the air from the town car that had driven Bella away, and I found myself gulping the pollution, the burn in my lungs stoking the fire inside me more and more, until I thought I'd choke on the dirt and grime.
Pain sharpened and whittled the fury of emotions down to just one.
I fucking hated her. I wished I'd never even seen her; that I'd taken one look at her and sent her away, knowing she wasn't good. Or even better—that I'd fucked her and left her for broke on the dirty, rotten couch backstage. Just another whore in a never-ending parade of them.
Anger fueled me, drove me harder, until I reached the end of Esme's long-ass driveway. I glanced back up, towards the house, knowing what waited for me there..
Whiskey. I could almost feel the satiny burn on my tongue as it trickled down my throat. For a second, I considered going back inside and losing myself in a bottle of whiskey, the amber lights glinting through the sharp crystal facets of one of Esme's priceless Waterford tumblers. Or maybe I'd just chug it straight from the bottle, humiliating Esme at her party and ruining Rose and Emmett's engagement celebration. It felt natural, like a pair of Chucks I'd worn for years.
Sex. Women who practically fell over themselves to be my whores. Who would degrade themselves in every possible way just so that I'd glance their direction.
I hesitated, the anger growling like a fierce, living thing inside me. It would be so easy to silence the animal, to feed it, to watch it grow and morph into something I could chain to me, bend to my will. I knew how to do it-the vices I'd always relied on were so tempting I nearly turned and returned to the house.
But I hesitated just long enough—long enough that I knew while it would work; after all, it always worked—it wouldn't change a fucking thing. Returning to the comfort zone I'd dwelled in for ages wasn't going to repair the old me that the last month had blown to rubble.
With the two crutches I'd relied on through every crisis in my life out of the question, I turned to a third. Reaching into my pocket for my phone, I dialed quickly before I came to my senses and changed my mind.
"Conor," I barked into the phone, not even waiting for his greeting, "meet me in the studio in half an hour."
"Edward? I thought we had a few days break." Conor sounded confused.
I felt the panic of feeling begin to creep up, and I swallowed convulsively, trying to push it back. "I know," I bit off, "but there's been a change of plan. Half an hour. And bring the rest of the guys."
I ended the call and dialed another, a taxi service in the area, giving directions to my location.
When the taxi came, there was a brief moment of regret, wondering if maybe perhaps I'd be missed at the party, that someone besides Bella would even notice I was gone, but it evaporated as soon as the door shut behind me.
They had only wanted the me that Bella had liked, that could like Bella back. And we both knew that man had only been a whimsical fantasy. I dug the note pad out of my pocket, and anger at Bella, for starting something she'd known was hopeless, and at myself, for letting her, began to spiral out of control as I scrawled words down on the page.
The boys weren't happy I'd wrenched them away on a Saturday, but after I gave a dark glare to Conor, he managed to wrestle them into line. We ran through the song I'd written first, the day that Bella had joined me in the studio.
The raw words and the driving, pulsing beat scraped my nerves, but I focused only on the music, not on the fact that Bella wasn't sitting on the other side of the window, hair falling into her face as she scribbled in her notebook.
The last chord faded in the air, and I glanced up, surprised at the sudden hush in the room. The guys were typically a loud bunch, and they liked to nag each other after we rehearsed, offering corrections and even suggestions at how to improve the musicality of the song. But they were quiet, and I turned around, annoyed despite the thrum of music in my blood.
Conor broke the silence. "Dude, that was intense," he said softly. "You sure you're alright?"
Apparently the idiot was more observant than I'd thought. So I ignored him.
"Okay," he said good-naturedly after a few uncomfortable moments of my brooding silence, "let's keep playing, then."
"This," I said, flipping angrily through a handful of papers, pointing to the song that I'd started in the cab.
"Seriously?" Tyler asked, strumming a few chords as he glanced over the lyrics I'd written.
"I'm deadly fucking serious," I snarled, picking out the opening chords on my guitar. "Follow my lead."
Shaking, like a dog shittin' razor blades.
As I practically growled the words into the microphone, they didn't make sense, but the latent fury in the words suited my mood. It turned out that not only was anger a safe emotion, it felt fucking amazing to get really pissed off again. She, I told myself, neutered you. Kept you tethered to the ground. This was freedom.
I'm waking up next to nothing
after dreaming of you and me.
I hated to admit it, but, even when she'd lay next to me in bed, I'd dreamt of her; dreamt of her long brown hair brushing against my skin awake during the day and while I slept. Dreamt of her as more than just a stop sign, as more than just a rest stop on an endless highway of girls, girls and more girls. Dreamed of a man who could let her in. Fury bubbled hard inside me as the words pouring out of me exposed the fantasy for the fraud it had been and then shredded it into a million pieces.
I'm waking up all alone;
waking up so relieved.
Was it relief? It could be. It should be, I insisted to myself. That Bella was gone once and for all, and the pressure was off to behave and to give her whatever the hell she thought she needed from me.
While you're taking your time with apologies;
I'm taking my time with revenge.
The moments that I'd been sure we'd die flashed through my mind, how terrified I'd been that they'd make me do something unspeakable to her. Bella had never hesitated to stick her neck out for me then, and though it wasn't fair of me, I wanted her to keep doing it. No matter how fucked up I was. The chords ground out of me and for a split second, I wanted to call up Seth and every other contact I had in the whole fucking music industry and destroy her chances of ever making her blog a success, because she'd destroyed my pride. More than my pride, she'd ruined, at least temporarily, my ability to be okay with who I was. I'd never cared before this; I cared now.
Red eyes on orange horizons
If Columbus was wrong, I'd drive straight off the edge
I'd drive straight off the edge
It was only a matter of time, right? I told myself fatalistically. I was made to go over that edge; I lived for the thrill, the terrifying, exhilarating rush when you tipped right over into the danger zone. I craved the adrenaline rush; the comforting proof that I was worthless and fucked up.
Taking your own life with boredom,
I'm taking my own life with wine -
it helps you to rule out the sorrow,
it helps me to empty my mind,
making the most of a bad time
There was nothing like getting absolutely fucking wasted to drive away any emotions that I didn't want. Alcohol had always been my drug of choice, and as the song trailed off, my throat dried up and burned. I wanted to grab the smooth glass sides of a bottle, gratifyingly heavy in my hand, and tip it to my mouth. I wanted to obliterate the memory and the uncomfortable trail of Bella's temporary path through my life.
There was no point in fucking around with myself any more. No point in trying to be "good." I'd fall off that cliff sooner or later—and probably sooner rather than later.
Before Bella had left me, I'd cut my drinking down to a single glass of whiskey or a few beers in the evenings while I hung out with Jasper. I hadn't been drunk or even tipsy since the night Emmett had taken me to the Red Hands. And even stranger, I hadn't missed it. I missed it now. I missed the cleansing oblivion. But I couldn't drink and make music that was any fucking good so when we took a break, working on the bridge going into the chorus of the new song, I wrenched the lid off a bottle of water.
It wasn't what I wanted at all, but it would have to do. Besides, I was pretty fucking positive that Conor had made the studio as dry as the Saraha. He knew what happened when I drank, and he wanted no part of it.
The chorus drummed its incessant chords into my brain, melting into my cells, molding them—changing me permanently into this haunted wraith who thought he saw brown hair out of the corner of his eye every time he looked up. Even a commotion at the door didn't shake my concentration on scrawled lyrics. I didn't look up because I didn't give a shit who was at the door. It wasn't going to be her. It wasn't ever going to be her again.
"Edward."
I forced my eyes to stay on the lyrics, refusing to give Carlisle the respect his voice demanded.
"You just left," he continued, frustration mounting and though I still refused to raise my eyes to meet his, I knew he'd just run a hand through his hair, leaving it standing straight up. I'd seen him do it a thousand times. A million times. In fact, before Emmett had taken me to the Red Hands, it had been a scene I'd witnessed at least once a day. "Esme was worried sick, and we didn't know where you or Bella were. Then Alice found a note saying Bella had gone back to Boston."
Carlisle hesitated, and I could hear his words before he even said them. And I knew you'd run.
"We're writing a song," I growled into the telling silence.
"It's good," Carlisle said, and before I remind myself that I hated him too, I looked up in surprise.
"It is?" I asked. I hated the way I sounded like an overenthusiastic, eager-to-please five year old, but I couldn't exactly take it back now.
"A little . . .dark and twisted, maybe—but significant."
"A hell of a lot better than some lame album of covers," I said with a savage pleasure. It had been so long since I'd been able to musically contribute anything worth a damn that I'd forgotten how good it felt.
"Boston, then?" Carlisle asked, his eyes guarded.
What did he expect me to say? Whatever had been happening with Bella was over. She'd ended it, and as far as I was concerned, not soon enough. If I'd stopped it back after the escape, then I wouldn't be feeling this way. She wouldn't be feeling this way.
I shook my head, and I tightened the grip on my anger. I got the anger. I understood it. Everything else felt alien and I couldn't handle it.
Carlisle was obnoxious enough to look sad but resigned. As if he'd expected any other answer. "I didn't think you would," he said quietly, "but maybe that's better for everyone involved."
I turned back to the music, my throat weirdly tight.
I cleared it awkwardly and lifted up the page of scribbled writing I'd just finished. "Always being Saint Carlisle," I tried to wrench out, but it came out sounding falsely angry instead.
He glanced down at me, and I realized he might know what I was going through and that why he giving me so much damn slack. I didn't even care if he knew everything, as long as he let me avoid facing myself.
"Finish your song," Carlisle told us, a lot more gently than I knew I deserved. "I'll be around. Vicky's boss is chomping at the bit to hear the new tunes—he may come down in a day or two. Be prepared."
I ignored the last part of what he said. I didn't want to face that yet. I wasn't sure I could face that. No doubt the label would be pissed off that I'd veered so far from their strict plan.
The bridge would have to be crossed eventually but right now, I wanted to make some kickass music, so I turned back to the band. "Chorus," I barked out. "Let's finish this shit."
I've got a big fat fuckin' bone to pick with you my darling
In case you haven't heard I'm sick and tired of trying.
I wish you would take my radio to bathe with you,
plugged in and ready to fall.
Forty eight hours later, my eyes felt like they'd been rubbed with cotton wool and my throat was drier than a desert, but we'd finished two more songs. Athair, I reminded myself, the song writing marathon forging us together in ways that we'd never connected before. Athair had finished two more songs.
They were hard and angry but somehow more vulnerable than anything I'd written before. For the first time, they were truly ours, as if I'd been living under some kind of low level anesthesia and now I was awake and alert. Fucking pissed off, yes, but alive.
"Dude, I'm wasted," Conor said, crashing into a chair, his guitar propped up carefully by the arm. "Fucking done, but God that felt good."
"It did," I agreed with a worn half-smile. It felt instinctual to glance up into the sound booth now, to see that dream-like glimpse of brown hair and her sympathetic smile. It wasn't real, and I'd done my part to eviscerate her in my music, but Bella had been the genesis of all of this. Not just her leaving, but her push for me to write different music.
Better music.
Someday you have to let the rest of the world see what I see. Even if it takes fifty years. Or a hundred.
I was so exhilarated I suddenly wanted to call Bella up and tell her, as if nothing had happened at all, that I'd managed to do just what she wanted and that it hadn't taken a hundred years. I'd done it right away—albeit with more than one song that was hatefully directed right at her betrayal.
"You did good," Conor said, his exhausted eyes red-rimmed but proud. "Now get to bed, you lazy, incompetent ass. The real work starts tomorrow, after you get some sleep." Nobody had ever dared to joke around with me before-but his smirk told me that not only was he kidding, but that he knew I wouldn't care.
I didn't know if I could even make it that far, but I stood anyway, the room swirling around me as if I was in a fog—or I'd had about ten too many glasses of whiskey. "There's a couch in the sound booth," Conor reminded me, his voice taking on a dreamlike quality, as if I was suddenly underwater. Or maybe it was him instead.
I froze. I couldn't go in there. I couldn't lay on the very spot she'd sat. Some undiagnosed and ignored feeling that could have been pain blossomed at the thought.
"I'll go home," I said as decisively as I was able, considering my exhaustion. Conor couldn't know of my weakness, but I wondered if maybe he'd figured it out anyway.
"Alright. See you in a couple days." We'd agreed to take a musical break, but I knew I'd be back in here right after sleeping. Idleness was unbearable; the only thing that kept all the shit at bay was the guitar my hand was wrapped around.
The door opened before I could reach for the handle and the flash of crimson hair was nearly blinding in the low light of the studio. I glared at Victoria dully, annoyed but too tired to drum up any kind of real anger. Or at least anger of any potency. I'd extinguished all that on Bella.
Victoria didn't bother with the niceties, but then she wasn't exactly nice. "Mr. Black is here to see you."
"Now?" I asked stupidly, too tired to even come close to processing the implications of her announcement. "Why?"
Her triumphant smirk broke through the fog and I realized she'd told her boss all about Bella and the new music. The music that was a complete 180 degree shift from what they'd been expecting me to make. I hadn't come to the studio, half-wasted, banging whores and groupies, laying down the tracks that the producer had shoved into my hands. I'd come in and done what I wanted, exactly the way I'd wanted it. No doubt Mr. Black didn't appreciate me shoving his shitty covers concept back up his ass.
If I'd felt even marginally less tired or marginally less confident or marginally less pissed off, I wouldn't have let him bully me into a meeting. But I bared my teeth at Vicky and said, "Alright, bring him in here."
That surprised her, and I didn't think there was a whole lot anymore that did that. I was reminded, with its accompanying flash of unrecognizable feeling, of Bella facing her down, of her protecting me fearlessly. "He's in his car, out front," Victoria pointed out awkwardly.
I didn't even answer, merely gave her a contemptuous glance that even at a low level might have singed the ends of her hair off.
"I'll let him know," she finally said awkwardly, and as she closed the door behind her, Conor stood up.
"Dude, don't let him hear this shit now," he murmured as he approached me. "This isn't good timing."
I waved with my free hand, not sure I even cared what Mr. fucking Black thought of what we'd created here. "Good. Bad. Timing is timing."
Bella in my dressing room. Bella manipulating Emmett into taking her with me. Bella's warm hand in mine as we waited in the dark hellhole.
Different timing and I would have been a completely different person now.
The door opened again, and this time I saw Jacob Black behind the scorching red of Victoria's mane of hair. He didn't say anything at first, his eyes taking in the piles of empty takeout boxes and the empty water bottles scattered throughout the studio. He took in my bloodshot eyes and steady hands.
"Well, Mr. Cullen," Jacob drawled, his tone disbelieving, "I do believe this is the first time we've ever met and you're sober enough to remember me. Do you remember me?"
I remembered him alright. I just wished I didn't. Jacob Black wasn't tall, but he was built like a fucking Ford truck—low center of gravity and a ton of bulky muscle. Today, he'd accessorized his bulk with a tight-fitting black t-shirt and a pair of Eurotrash gray slacks. His dark eyes honed in on me, no doubt memorizing every single flicker of emotion on my face. He was one of the slimiest, most astute babysitters the label had ever assigned me, and I'd never hated any one more than I'd hated him. Now I thought Niall might have won that particular honor, but Jacob Black still came in a solid second place.
I nodded stiffly, acknowledging his unwanted presence. "It's a long drive from New York," I said roughly, my voice shot from two straight days of recording. "It's too bad you wasted your time."
He paused, those eyes absorbing the contents of the room all over again. "Victoria assures me that you've been making music here, and I can't say I'm inclined to disagree with her. Can I hear it?"
The most bizarre part was that I didn't even want to deny him; I wanted him to hear the songs we'd written. I was perversely proud of them, and I thought, if only for the briefest moment, that he might even like them.
"Of course," I said, trying to imitate his ingratiating tone. "Why wouldn't you be able to?"
We followed him into the sound room. I didn't look once at the couch. Conor and the boys lounged against the doorway, and I stood, awkwardly upright and sober and angry, in the middle of the room. The song I privately thought of as "Pretender," but that was yet unnamed began to play. I couldn't bring myself to even glance at Jacob as the melody built to its crescendo. The song was as perfect today as it had been that day we'd recorded it as Bella sat in the corner of this very room—perfectly expressing all that we'd been forced to deal with the man who had taken us and kept us against our will.
The music died away and I glanced up at Jacob, but his expression was totally blank. "Next," Jacob barked and the song I'd written to express all my anger against Bella started playing.
Still no reaction. I glanced away, a bad feeling growing in the pit of my stomach. He listened to a third song and then the sections we'd written of the fourth. Then there was nothing but silence.
"Edward," Jake finally said, "do you know how many copies you sold of Aiming to Misbehave?"
I shrugged. That had been the biggest heap of shit I'd ever recorded and the idea that it had sold more than ten copies was repugnant to me now.
"Three million," he told me conversationally, as if he wasn't discussing the fact that my POS album had gone triple platinum. "Three million."
"It was horrible," I burst out. "How is that possible?" I saw out of the corner of my eye that the rest of the band, Conor included, was filing out of the room, leaving me alone with Jacob and his henchwoman.
It was Jake's turn to shrug. "My personal theory is that you could literally shit into a CD case and it would turn into solid gold. But that's neither here nor there. You have a reputation to protect, and this isn't going to help it."
"Good music?" I asked, disbelief leaking into my tone. "Making halfway decent shit isn't going to help my reputation?"
Jacob sighed and leaned against the sound board. "You're known for your little amalgamation of shitty Irish music and punk rock, accompanied by a good dose of I'm Edward Cullen, a fucking asshole. And that's the music you're going to continue to make, because it sells."
I was speechless. I'd never considered the possibility—and I was fairly certain that Bella hadn't either—that what the label wanted me to make was albums like Aiming to Misbehave.
"Bullshit," I snapped, trying to keep my voice as level as possible. "You're lying."
"My orders," Jake said, still calm, as we were discussing his favorite soda flavor, "are to make sure you don't deviate from what you've always done. And," he waved his hand airily, "this is all a little too . . .difficult. Emotional. Messy. Not cut and dried, harmless rabble-rousing shit."
I was surprised that nobody else in the studio could hear the explosion. I felt it detonate inside me, and couldn't believe that it didn't turn my entire body to pink mist. "Emotional?" I screamed at him, rage coursing through me like the oldest, finest whiskey, intoxicatingly pure and blindingly strong. "Difficult? You're full of fucking bullshit."
Even in the face of my rage, Jacob remained still. Fearless. "Maybe," he suggested, "you could consider giving these songs to another artist."
The fury in me grew, until it closed off my throat and I was speechless with anger. At him. At the label. At Carlisle. At Bella. At myself.
"I'm sure we'll be in touch," Jacob said and suddenly he was gone and there was only red, blinding red, all around me. It took me a second to realize it was Victoria following him out the door, but I grabbed her arm before she could run away like the little bitch she was.
"You fucking whore," I snarled into her face as my vise-like grip closed over her wrist and I forced her against the wall just outside the door. The hallway was empty, Jacob and the rest of the boys long gone. It was just me and her, her widened eyes told me, and the animal inside cackled with glee at the fear and the lust seeping out of her skin. They all wanted me, even though they feared me. Every woman wanted the chance at unleashing the beast that was Edward Cullen.
"You did this on purpose," I continued, my face now only a quarter of an inch from hers, my body practically pressed up against her curvier one. She felt nothing like Bella and it was a fucking relief. I couldn't close my eyes and imagine that her hair was brown instead of fire engine red. I couldn't pretend she meant anything at all.
"Don't," she stuttered, "don't . . .don't . . .hurt me."
"Oh," I crooned with my old sadistic edge, "don't worry, little girl. It's not going to hurt." I pressed my lips to hers in a bruising, painful kiss; passion transformed into control and power.
She didn't even struggle and that disappointed me. Instead she just collapsed into me, as if I'd just fulfilled her darkest fantasy. If I'd treated Bella like this, she would have slapped me and then laughed in my face.
I pulled away abruptly. Vicky tasted like ash and bad wine, and I wondered if I was going to be sick. She stared at me for a few empty moments, as if she wanted me to continue right where I'd left off, but I'd lost my stomach for it. For other women, anyway. Victoria wasn't going to make me feel better any time soon.
As I stormed down the hallway, my boots making echoing earthquakes on the tile floor, I pulled my phone out and dialed the taxi service. There was only one choice left now.
I wasn't surprised to see Carlisle waiting in the growing darkness for me as the taxi pulled up to the front of Esme's house. "What do you want?" I snapped at him as I exited, throwing a handful of bills at the driver, not even caring which he'd received. My anger hadn't lessened at all during the drive—had only focused harder and sharper, until it was a laser beam ready to destroy anything and everything in its path.
"I just got off the phone with Conor. And I talked to Jacob Black. Do you want me to deal with it?" Carlisle trailed after me as I stormed up the stairs to the bedroom I'd slept in before.
"What's there to deal with?" I said, chuckling viciously. "They want me to be a fucking shit fest, just to make them more fucking money."
"I can negotiate . . ." Carlisle started to say but I cut him off, pausing in the doorway of the bedroom.
"No." Music wasn't a sanctuary anymore. Sanctuaries didn't fucking exist, only whatever I could find to numb me to everything.
He stopped and he glanced in the bedroom as I stalked over to the closet, where I knew I'd stashed a spare. I knew the moment he figured out what I was doing, but he was too late. Before he could reach me, I slammed the walk-in closet door shut and locked it, the click resounding in my head.
I didn't bother to turn the light on, but the bottle felt so familiar in my hand that I didn't have any problem wrenching the cap off. "To Bella," I toasted wryly into the darkness as Carlisle pounded against the door at my back.
It turned out that oblivion wasn't so overrated after all.