..::.. Chapter 18 - Boyfriend? ..::..

Young, high school continued …

I'm shocked. I'm shaken. I'm… what am I? I dissolve into new tears.

I wipe at my cheeks, wring the wetness off my trembling hands, and try to take gulps of air. I don't stare out my window, just in case. I'm stuck to the floor against my door where my legs gave in.

I surpassed Emmett and ran out the door. When I arrived home, I managed to elude both Mom and Dad as I ran in and up to my room. Mom was in the pantry, Dad somewhere in the basement.

"Fuck … fuck, fuck." I cry. I pull at my hair at the crown of my head. Life goes on normally in this house, and a man was stabbed to death in another. I saw it happen. I saw it. "God …"

I crawl to the window and sit there between my bed and the baseboard. I hear a car door. I peek out.

A moving truck is pulling up to the Cullen lot, a driver gets out, and two men in work boots walk up to the porch with a cargo cart in tow. They walk out of view. The driver waits around, a cigarette lit between his fingers in no time.

Then, after what seems to be hours, they're back. The cargo is loaded. The men quickly drag it along but with little effort. The truck bed opens, and in goes the cardboard box.

Carlisle walks out and into a black car. Four men flank him. Jasper lingers in the yard, but I can't see who he's talking to. The truck drives off, and the rest of the men in trench coats slowly make their way into other vehicles parked by the sidewalk.

Jasper shuffles around where he stands, and he reaches out, holding someone back. His arm is pushed away. He watches Edward cross the yard. Still in his boxers, t-shirt, and barefoot, he jumps the fence by the front of our house.

My stomach ties in knots.

I'm frozen where I sit on my heels.

I stare at my bedroom door. I stare at the knob.

It'll turn, I know it. A storm will barge in, and this is the end of me.

The room seems to swell with tension from the anticipation. I wait for a raging and furious Mom to walk in. She'll kill me for keeping friends with … killers. Or worse. Dad will show up speechless, disappointment in his eyes, ready to disown me. They'll kill him.

I could throw up.

I try to breathe, but it's choppy. And right when I'm folding over the floor to do just that, the door opens.

I can't imagine how Edward could make it through the front door, up the stairs, and stand at my bedroom door undetected.

But then, I couldn't have imagined anything worse than what I saw just hours ago.

Everything has changed.

I shiver at the sight of him. He hasn't walked in, only standing at the arch that could never overshadow his considerable height. His presence.

I watch him, he watches me, and this breathless silence chokes me.

There's a thing about presence. Put any other being in his place—Dad, Mom, Alice, Ben—they'd fall short. They could never take up the room he does. I realize, this is what his father saw. He carved him this way. Every push and shove, every reject, restraint, and reprimand behind his father's index finger, jabbing into his shoulder, created a dent, a crevice. Chipped paint just like Edward's walls. They all aimed to carve this—a man; not a child anymore.

My eyes flicker to his hand at his side. The smear of blood still there. His palm stained, nail beds red at their edges.

He follows my line of sight. He lifts his palm to see what I see. He blinks down at it.

He leaves the door wide open when he turns. The bathroom is right across the hall from my bedroom. I can see when he pushes through that door, stands before the sink, and opens the hot, scorching water. Slowly, taking his time, he washes his hands. The white soup turns pink. Steam billows toward his blank profile.

Over and over he folds a palm over his other hand and washes death away.

When he's done, he's … thorough. The white towel I used this morning to dry my cheeks take care of the wet sink and even the few droplets on the tiles that dripped below. He splays it over a rack to dry.

But never once does he look up at himself in the mirror.

I can't help it. My mind fathoms the impossible, such a sight set in ten years. Imagination creates a matrimonial visual; My husband doing such in our bathroom. Me in bed watching him shave in the morning in his boxers.

Will he always be a killer?

I thought we would be forever.

I don't know so much anymore. Watching him come back and softly click the bedroom door shut behind him breaks my heart. What could've been.

He stares at the floor. He sniffs. He crosses his arms over his chest. He does all of this after attempting to get closer. He couldn't. He made a circle. He stepped away and just stood there, feeling the audacity, the unwelcome.

He settles on sitting by the door and leaning his back against it.

I swallow a heaviness.

"What … the fuck?" I take a staggered breath.

He looks up at me, takes me in; the blotchiness and puffiness. He doesn't respond.

I shake my head. I wipe a tear away angrily, and with complete brokenness, I murmur, "This isn't going to work."

He doesn't react. Anger strikes me.

"You hear me? It won't work. Leave."

He doesn't move. I take a breath.

"Look, I won't tell anyone if that's what you're worried about. I … couldn't anyway."

His eyes flicker away. He stares at his hands that pair and meet in steeples by his bent knees.

I sigh.

"I mean, what the fuck will my family think if…? Mom would kill me. Dad would probably send me to another country. People will know. They'll think … that poor, stupid girl chose him as her boyfriend."

He breaks into a faint grin. "Boyfriend?" He looks up through his lashes.

I sigh. A new set of tears pour out.

"Fuck you," I say. I dissolve into this sadness.

I rub at my forehead, close my eyes and feel defeated. Of course, that would be a ridiculous concept. Who was I kidding? This is how it's always been with him.

He makes to move from where he sits.

"Don't you dare come any closer." I glare.

He slowly settles back in place with a long, chastised face. He reaches up to his shoulder with a wince. I notice.

"Since you won't leave, you'll tell me what happened. The least you could do."

He looks at me, and I challenge him, not looking away. He can be a presence elsewhere. Here, he'll have to be pliable and honest.

He focuses on his hands and I know I've won this small battle.

"Do you really want to get into this? Once I do …" he says, shaking his head.

"What? You'd have to kill me?" I roll my eyes. "Spare me the bullshit intimidation. It won't work."

His jaw goes sharp. He adjusts his expression. He motions with a no-bullshit lift of his chin.

He speaks.

"We're a unit. It's a lot of us. We break into corporates, daytime, when the areas are running and busy. Some owe us. The McCarthy's have been involved. They wanted in on a larger cut, took it upon themselves. Then, it got out of hand. You get me?"

I blink. I know the McCarthys. They're a large family. So many of them it's vague who's related. Cousins in the same grade, businesses all over town, grandmas and grandpas living in the same neighborhoods for generations.

My head shakes. "Why break in?"

He gives me a look.

"Fine. How many are you?"

He doesn't answer. I push.

"A few people I know?"

He tilts his head.

"Hundreds?" I say more hesitantly.

He rubs his lips. I watch transfixed.

"It's a hard job to orchestrate. I have a lot of … friends," he says. I stare blankly. He continues. "Most of them are really good people. Tellers. Secretaries. Security. All over the city. They just want to make a little extra."

"And you … orchestrate everything."

This is tedious for him, the questions. He takes a breath. Like nothing. He's a mastermind and a high school student, and what he does is nothing. I'm … speechless.

"How do you pass your classes? When do you sleep?"

He seriously thinks on this, scratches his neck. "School is easy, and Sundays." He nods.

I roll my eyes.

"Watching you sleep is enough not to need it," he finishes. He looks like he'd crawl right over to me.

Buttering me up. I ignore it.

"Then, why didn't Senior trust you?"

He looks at me confused.

"I mean, he was hard on you. I … heard once. You guys were really fucking loud."

He nods, lost in thought, staring out the windows. He makes no moves to answer. His father was his personal nightmare. But in that flicker in his eye, I know … I know he always sought his father's approval. I don't know if he ever gained it.

"But he went after you. He cared," I dare say. He cuts his eyes to me. A look to kill. He didn't seem to like that. I bite my tongue but brave through it anyway. I want to know. "Were you there when he died?" I ask.

He says nothing.

I change the subject.

"You didn't have to kill him. I was fine back there," I say. I imagine the blood draining down the sink in whirls, the pool of it staining the wooden floors of the library as we speak.

"Joe had it coming. For years," he says suddenly. "Senior was tough inside, but deep down there was loyalty.

"We'd point, Joe planned the kill. Clean and quick. So, think, Bella; what would he have done once he figured out your last name?" he asks.

My stomach churns. I squeeze my eyes shut and try my hardest to erase the answer to that question storming in my mind.

"I'd kill him … I swear I'd kill anyone who tries to hurt them," I seethe, my heart hammering.

Edward shakes his head, his eyes darkening. "You won't have to," he assures. The certainty is clear and deliberate. He already has. For me.

I crawl up to bury my face in my unmade bed. I grip the sheets and cover my face, knuckles white.

"This is all my fault." My voice breaks. I wallow in this overwhelming feeling. Maybe a little embarrassed, still.

God ...

I stay like this for a while. Then, there's a feather touch, so faint on my arm, my skin prickles. I feel it crawling down my chest to my limbs. I look from over my knuckles.

Edward's hand disappears over the edge of the bed as he pulls away. He crawled over. His head peeking above the mattress like a bodiless monster crawling out from under my bed. My nightmare.

"Not entirely," he admits.

I huff and roll my eyes. Yes, I barged in, and there was a consequence. He had to bear a bloody hand because of it.

"I hated the way you looked at me," I admit about his coldness in the library. I can't help it. I don't have a filter when I'm like this.

"You weren't supposed to be there," he says flatly.

"You gave me no choice," I say right back with fire.

He watches me.

"Neither did you," he murmurs.

He gestures said hand—permission to approach the bed. "Can I get some?" he says about the blanket laid around me.

I shake my head a little. A line of wet drips from the corner of my eyelids.

"I've been cold. You've looked warm," he whispers. Like he's looked through my window. But he stayed away.

Still, my limbs warm as if he commands them.

Heat flows.

Eyes flutter.

His hand glides over the bed. He lets it crawl deeper under the blanket. I feel it.

My breathing picks up. I let my eyes close, and my legs go slack.

Then, I don't see him. I feel him.

Give him an inch, he'll go under, along with his hand, elbow, and torso. And even my fly pops and these jeans roll off my legs. He takes it all. His breath against my hip bones. Mine filling up my chest.

I'm jostled. My back rolls onto the mattress, my eyes the back of my sockets. I let these jelly legs fall open. And soon enough these bed sheets are twisting under my hands with each stroke of his tongue, sucking the last bit of doubt I have in my body about ever keeping him at arm's length.

What would my family think?

A killer, a thief, and a criminal licks me dry, and I let him.

I curl my fingers around his hair and writhe until I feel I'll come undone. I let him crawl up, but not with his boxers on. I toe them off, and we're so desperate. This anger in me, ripping at his shirt. He winces. His teeth biting down around his pain, I grind my teeth around mine and dig my nails into him. He grunts and sucks in a breath, but pushes every inch of himself inside me.

I cry out, but his mouth is there to smother it; bloody and dry where his lip split. He kisses me hard, and I taste it. He squeezes every part of me. He leans back and watches us move.

And right when I hear Mom call up the stairs, he pulls back and slams into me.

Panic and pleasure grip me like I do my teeth around my fist. I push at him frantically.

Her steps coming up the stairs.

Again, she calls.

My heart pounds against my chest and Edward looks down at me with lazy eyelids.

I grab his face. I shake him. His eyes drift closed as he moves.

I slap him so hard he sucks in air like he's found consciousness. He turns an ear over his shoulder. I'm digging fists against his chest to move, to hide, to jump out the fucking window.

"Edward," I whisper furiously. He looks up, delirious. What he does is he kisses me.

He tugs on my legs. He wraps his arms tightly around me. I open my eyes, and we're in darkness. My closet door barely hooks onto the latch he pulls behind him. He has me pressed against the wall. My clothes in hangers, some falling as he moves, still, through his hurried frenzy. I grab anything and ball it around his mouth and mine.

He's lost. His eyes closed, and mine are wide and alert.

Because right through the slit of the open door, I watch as my mother steps into my room. She turns her head left, then she turns her head right.

"Bella," she calls.

Edward thrusts and I smother my cries around his shoulder.

Mom turns, yells out to the hallway. "Charlie, did you see her leave Alice's house yet?" The response is too far away to hear, the open window bringing in the noises from outside.

I grip the doorjamb inside and squeeze my eyes shut against his relentlessness.

She casually steps out and looks back in—mother's instincts. My mirror takes her full frame. Her eyes seem to lock to mine, but she looks away. In silent screams, I die inside.

I turn my face into his neck and feel him grow frantic.

Then, he's crying.

His shoulders begin to heave, and he crushes me to him. I run my fingers through his hair and try to look at him. He's inconsolable, yet breathlessly silent.

Slowly, we slide down to the floor. Soundlessly. His knees give in, and so do I. I watch him, tears dissolve onto the shirt smothering his mouth, and my tears pour down along with his; for the scare and for this sudden sorrow. I dissolve in the mix of the two and hold him, all while he finally lets go of the one person who grips his heart tightly—his father.

The answer is he did watch him die.

. .

. .