I don't own Twilight, because otherwise I would have insisted on a better wardrobe.
Twelve
The smell of meat sizzling on the barbecue drifts through the backyard; smoky, greasy and delicious. It's a Sunday afternoon and the weather is glorious, the perfect day for a lazy lunch with friends. My mouth waters as Ange waddles outside with a bowl of pasta salad, her hand resting on her huge belly as she leans over to put it on the table beside the myriad of other accompaniments she's prepared. For a woman supposed to pop out a little one at any moment, she's surprisingly calm and domesticated, spending half the morning cooking for friends instead of on the couch where she should be.
"You want a hand?" I ask, setting the last of the plates on the outdoor table.
"Nah," she replies, shooing away a fly with a flip of her hand. "It's done now. Just gotta wait for the boys to get back, and then we can eat."
"You can hand me a plate," says Rosie from behind the barbecue. Her sunshine blonde hair is piled atop her head, curly strands falling around her forehead and over her eyes. With her face fixed in concentration as she cooks, she looks just like her brother - the same little crease forming between her brows, the same pucker of her lips.
I've been living with her and Jasper for just over a week, and being around them has really opened my eyes to their similarities. They have a relationship that can only be explained by the fact that they're twins. Like the conversations without words; just a series of grunts and facial expressions. Or the way their moods mirror each other's; if Jasper is pissy and grumpy, Rosie is quiet and withdrawn, and vice versa. I would never tell them this though, they hate being compared to one another, and Jasper is always reminding everyone of the three minutes and twenty seconds he has over his sister.
Narrowly missing a swipe from Rosie's tongs, I steal a piece of cooked onion from the pile on the grill plate, and slip it into my mouth. It's soft and sweet, and cooked perfectly. Rose is kind of a wiz on the barbie.
I hand her the serving plate just as the front door bursts open and the boys all stumble in; damp-haired and water-logged, wearing triumphant smiles that only the ocean can put there. Laughter echoes through the house and the familiar timbre of friendly voices - Edward's included - make me smile. His moods are becoming a little easier to predict. If the surf is good, he's his usual charming self. But, on the odd day that the water is calm and flat, or when the weather doesn't cooperate, he's like a cornered lion, all pent-up and twitchy. It's on those days he usually seeks me out, like he's trying to keep himself busy until he can be in the water again. Not that I mind, I'm more than happy to be a distraction for him.
Ben sits his board against the wall inside the front door, his long blonde hair hanging wet around his shoulders, water dripping over his broad, tattooed chest.
"Don't you dare leave that thing there!" scolds Ange, shaking her head.
Grinning, Ben leans over to kiss his wife on the cheek soundly, whispering something in her ear quietly. Rolling her eyes, Ange smiles wryly at him, nudging him with her baby-widened hip.
"Hurry up then," she concedes, whipping the tea towel at him. "Lunch is ready."
The boys are the first at the table, hip and shouldering each other as they compete for a spot at the spread of food. Like vultures, as quickly as they descend, they're gone, leaving nothing but a few chops and some salad for the rest of us.
"Ugh," groans Rose, picking up the lone slice of garlic bread left. "You boys are fucking pigs."
With full mouths and plates, the boys ignore her, ravenous from a morning in the surf.
Loading up my own plate with salad and half of the remaining sausage, I take the only available seat left beside Edward. With a mouth full of white bread and tomato sauce, he grins at me before washing it down with a mouthful of beer. I watch him from the corner of my eye as he devours his food like a jail inmate, shovelling it into his mouth like it's his last meal.
Balancing my plate on my legs, I nudge his arm gently as everyone around us talks loudly. "How was it?"
With a forkful of pasta salad in his mouth, he nods vigorously. Swallowing, he licks his lips, my eyes following the path of his tongue across his bottom lip. "Paul smashed it," he says loud enough for everyone to hear. "Rode like a champ all day."
Paul grins as a chorus of 'Yeewww's' erupt from the boys. He looks proud of himself.
"You all set for next weekend?"
Oh, yeah, the epic party to end all parties.
"Nope. Not at all."
Stretching his legs out in front of him, Edward rests his hands on his full stomach. "Want me to come over and help on Friday?"
Peering at him beside me, my eyes can't help but drift down his long legs and back, all the way up to the spot where his golden skin appears from beneath his t-shirt collar. "Nah, we should be okay, I think."
"Sure? I'm pretty good at lifting, and I've got pretty mad decorating skills."
"Mad decorating skills, huh? What are you doing working at Aerial when you could be stringing up fairy lights and paper chains for a living?"
Resting his head back on the chair, he smiles. "Too bad I failed all the written tests at party decorating college. I knew I should have finished high school."
"Oh, well, lucky you're alright at surfing then."
He chuckles, his head lolling to one side and his expression softening as he looks at me. "Yeah, I guess I'm alright."
The day of the party Rose and I decide to make the most of the weekend off, and head down to the main beach for some sun and relaxation. With the bar so busy, both she and I have been pulling long shifts and working until all hours. Needless to say, I'm absolutely pooped; the weekend off is a godsend.
Taking up a little square of available space on the sand, Rose and I spread our towels out. Even though it's early – only just eight in the morning on a Saturday – the sand is already warm, a sure sign that a hot day lies ahead.
"I don't think I've been down here on a Saturday morning," I muse, watching hordes of people arrive; bringing with them Eskies, towels, beach balls, hats, sunshades and loud, obnoxious children.
"Mmm," rasps Rosie beside me, already half asleep on the warm sand, her t-shirt draped over her face as her long, lean body soaks up the sunshine. "I usually hate it here on the weekends. We won't stay long; it'll start getting hectic about lunch time."
I'd meant to spend my time on the beach getting some vitamin D and relaxing, but there's just so much to see. Girls in teeny-tiny bikinis unwrap themselves from their clothes; full faces of makeup, and jewellery still intact. How they expect to last in the water I'll never know. I catch sight of my Uncle Mick, in his ever present red Speedo, power-walking on the water's edge, his iPod strapped to his arm, his chest hair glistening silver-grey in the sunlight. He waves, his hips swish-swish-swishing from side to side, his arms pumping at his sides, and I wave back, glad he doesn't seem to want to stop and chat.
A small group of children dressed in bright blue rashies and caps are all congregated on the soft white sand, each of them holding a matching boogie board. Parents fiddle with sunscreen and zinc, tying and re-tying the little blue and white caps under their chins. I'm about to look away, when a familiar form, dressed in the same dark blue board shorts, makes his way across the sand to the group of children. His sun-lightened hair is tucked under a backwards red cap, the letters CSLC printed across the back of his shorts. The sight of him in board shorts, slung low, perched on his narrow hips like they're held up by sheer will-power, never fails to send a shot of warmth to my centre. Today is no different, and I adjust my position on my towel, crossing my legs.
"Is that Edward?" I ask, nudging Rosie.
Groaning a little, she lifts her head and then drops it to the sand again. "Yeah. He takes the under seven Nippers."
"He teaches them stuff?"
"Yeah, sort of. He teaches them how to swim in the surf, and how to navigate rips and whatever."
I watch him gather the girls and boys around, his smile visible even from my spot right back on the beach. They line up like a row of ducks, side by side, their boogie boards at their feet. I watch, rapt, as Edward's hands move about in front of him as he talks, his voice silenced by distance and the crowd around me. I find myself giggling when the kids laugh, and watching intently as he demonstrates how to swim across a rip, his powerful arms moving through the air.
With a clap of his hands, the kids are off and racing, boards in hand, straight for the water. Resting back on my elbows, I watch him in the water with the kids, kids no taller than my hips paddling into freezing water I'm freaked out to get into.
While Rose sleeps, I watch Edward; my music in my ears, the sun on my back. After twenty minutes or so of swimming, the kids all exit the water with boundless energy and cold-water pinked skin. Rosalie turns onto her stomach, and I figure since she's fast asleep, I'm going to leave her in peace while I talk to Edward.
Picking my way across the hot sand, through beach chairs and sandcastles, I make my down to the water where Edward stands, retrieving flags and stacking little coloured markers.
"So this is where you go on Saturday morning!"
Straightening up, he turns; blazing smile in full force.
"You caught me," he teases, tossing a little yellow witches hat at me.
"You're like Mother Goose with all those little ones chasing after you."
I try to balance the plastic cone on my head to no avail, instead, watching it topple to the sand.
"I'm like the Pied Piper of Nippers, Bella. Didn't you know that? Kids love me. I'm loveable."
"I'll bet you are."
A trio of girls no older than thirteen or so walk by, waving and greeting Edward by name. Blushing, he waves once, returning his attention to the flag in the sand.
"Does your magic work on teenage girls too?" I ask raising an eyebrow as the pre-pubescent girls giggle quietly to each other.
Edward's curious blush spread across his collar bones and up his neck, tinting his cheeks. The sight of it makes me want to attach my mouth to the indent behind his clavicle and taste the warmth of his skin.
"What are you doing down here?" he asks, changing the subject.
"Basking," I reply, holding out my arms and smiling.
His eyes linger appreciatively for a moment, his gaze hotter than the sun on my skin. And when his eyes meet mine I can tell he's replaying last night in his head.
Sitting atop his lap in his van, I can feel him beneath me, covered only by the thin material of his shorts as my skirt rides up around my hips. His fingers tangle into the hair at back of my head as he pulls me closer, his hips shifting upwards to meet mine as our kisses become sloppy, our breaths mingling between us. The heat inside the car and out has my hair damp and stuck to the back of my neck, and I can feel how hot Edward is beneath me, his body radiating heat like the midday sun.
Air hisses from between my teeth as his thumb brushes over my nipple, my bikini top doing nothing to hide the hard peaks beneath. Teasing gently, he brushes my sensitive skin, rolling it between his fingers until they're so hard it hurts. I shudder violently as his whole hand, hot against my already heated skin, palms my breast through the material, long fingers cupping gently as his tongue moves in tandem against mine.
"Fuck," he drawls as I grind harder over his lap, feeling every long, thick inch of him against me. I worry briefly, albeit excitedly, that he might be bigger than I've had before. And the thought of him stretching me to fit, filling me, bending my body to his will, makes me so fucking hot I can barely stop myself from reaching inside his shorts to take a look.
Soon we're both panting, pressing, grinding, trying to find friction in the small amount of space we have. His tongue practically fucks my mouth as I move over him, and his hands grip my ass as I move faster, trying to both sate the aching need between my legs, and to watch him come undone beneath me. My arms move above my head to the roof of the van as his thrusts become harder, my whole body bucking violently as he pushes against that spot that within moments has me shaking inside and out. My mouth falls open in a silent scream and his eyes squeeze together tightly; his brow knitted together as he grunts and rolls his hips into me, his head collapsing against my damp chest as he comes.
"What time does it start tonight?" he asks, and from the look on his face, he knows I'm thinking about it too.
"Whenever. Just come over whenever you want."
"Alright."
I toe the sand, trying to calm my racing heart. "You gunna stay the night? I mean, I think Jasper said some of the boys are crashing on the floor or whatever."
Tucking his bottom lip between his teeth, he nods. "Yeah, Jasper mentioned it. We'll see what happens."
"Okay, well, cool."
He nods, pulling his cap around so that the brim faces front. "See you tonight then."
"Yep."
We're both hiding goofy smiles when we part, because we both know he'll stay the night. And we both know that he'll stay the night in my bed.
It's just a matter of how quickly we get there.
Barbie - Barbeque, not the doll.
Yeeewwww - Surfers often call this out as praise in the surf. A more manly version of wooooo!
Tiff is my beta Wonder Woman, and Thimbles and Ink are the best cheersquad a girl could ask for.
If you want to get a little glimpse into life on Clearwater Beach, try YouTubing an Aussie show called 'Bondi Rescue'. YEEWWWW!