Discretion: Adults only, please.

..::.. Chapter 17 - Darts ..::..

Young - high school, continued …

I don't know what to do. Do I walk up to their house, knock and hug him tight until all his pain melts away? Who are we to one another now? We were barely something solid, no exchange of affection, intimacy, or titles. It was all physical, desperate, silent love. Loud were the crashing sounds we made when we'd find each other.

I can't knock on the door and say, "Where's my boyfriend?"

I cringe. Even that sounds splittingly off.

He isn't.

He's not mine.

The local news doesn't let up. We turn it off because the monotone, insensitive reporters covering such a fragile story is unnerving. We don't need details. Everyone saw it with their own eyes, but me.

Then, the cops ran in to arrest the driver of the vehicle. The young guy, beaten bloody, was allegedly threatened to give Senior a drive around town in his car. They found the driver almost passed out behind the wheel, as the car crawled to a stop on main street. He swore he didn't do it. He pleads not guilty. His wife with a newborn probably sits at home knowing the move here last summer was a terrible idea.

I can't mourn alongside Edward. I can't help him. But I can help Alice.

I sigh in relief. Anything to be near him.

I attempted calling her private line days after the death. No answer. I wait. Every hour I ring her. Still, no answer and no lights flicker on in their house.

Vick and Bree are quiet, the entire circle, really. It isn't the same. The rest of the school goes on with their loud daily banter at lunch, and we sit silently.

"This is so fucking depressing. I'm so over this already. Could we just move on? It wasn't like he was a good father anyway."

I scoff. Vick looks over.

"What?" she says.

I shake my head, twirl my pen in hand, and continue the math problem in my notebook.

"You're rude, that's what. You're insensitive."

She rolls her eyes. "Whatever. All I'm saying is I need some serious ups right now. Fucking excruciating dealing with issues that aren't my own."

I look at Bree to gauge her reaction, because this sure as shit can't be coming out of her lips. Not from someone who hangs on Alice's every word, follows her every footstep.

Bree's polishing her nails, pretending to mind her own business.

"All the attention is off you. Of course, you'd be inconvenienced, right?" I say right back. "She's your friend, have some respect."

She rolls her eyes and sucks her teeth.

"Right. Because you're such a good friend, Bella. You'd do anything for her to avoid confrontation."

Bree glances at me from under her lashes and gets back to her nails. I look at Vick.

"What the fuck does that even mean?"

She holds up her hands. "Oh, you know. I'm not the one who should be worried about disrespecting best friends. I'm not fucking the siblings of best friends."

Blood drains from my face. I try so hard not to show a reaction but for knitted brows.

"Excuse me?"

Bree chuckles.

"Oh, you're excused from the table, Hon. But your man ain't here today to chase after you and pin you to a wall," Vick says. Her grin is faint but conniving.

I nod. I look down at my notebook, and my hands are already trembling. My heart goes from zero to sixty. I even out the tone of my voice.

"So, how many people know?" I ask nonchalantly.

They cackle at the confession.

"Bingo, you whore!" Bree bangs the table.

Vick shakes her head. "Everyone could know. Little Miss Innocent-introvert has a little devil inside her."

"Puns!" Bree interjects. They die laughing.

I look at Vick very closely. Her smug grin cloaking a tinge of something else. She looks at me, but there's anger behind her words.

I shrug. "You're right. We fuck. Any chance we get. And you know what? I make him come so hard he boomerangs. The difference between before and now? He can't get enough. He comes right back. He doesn't have to keep trying; from the next, to the next loose bitch who gets near him. Now, he just smells of me.

"Whatever happens between him and me is none of your fucking business. I don't get into your complicated, filthy sex life you share with half the guys and girls in this town—yeah, I know about that, too."

Bree chokes on her Diet Coke. Vick goes pink.

I point at her face. "You don't get to butt into my private shit with someone I've known all my life. That's right, I actually know him." I glare at both of them. They're slightly wide-eyed. "Like I said, have some respect and keep your damn mouth shut."

Bree covers hers with a hand so she won't burst. Vick's glare smolders, but she does what she's told for once.

I stare her down. She looks away.

Good girl.

I turn to my very late, and very sloppy homework knowing I'll definitely have to keep my eyes out for 'friends' who are bitter about guys who never gave them the time of day.

Well, not this one. He's mine. And I pine for him every moment he's away.

I let that simmer all day. That thought.

Mine.

I'm sitting in my room after school, and no one is home. I leave Mom a note. I don't want her to worry, because knowing I'm going to do what I'm about to do, might give her anxiety.

The path down from my house and up to the Cullen house is farther than I thought. Maybe it's the nerves bubbling inside.

I knock on the door. When there's no answer, I look through the windows. There's movement inside. I step back. I circle the porch feeling awkward for being caught looking in.

Should I stay, or go?

But I miss him. I cringe. I'm pathetic. I do miss Alice, too.

The door swings open. Uncle Emmett looks out. He's kind of squinting against the afternoon light. One beat, two, his expression changes and he recognizes me. He steps back. He widens the door, exposing the darkness to light. I don't see anything for a second or two until my eyes adjust.

I haven't visited in years, but I don't think it typically looks like this. From where I stand, the living room is in sight. Mayhem. There are empty plastic cups, disposable plates, and cigar butts smoking in an ashtray, lying on the coffee table. The TV is muted. Clothes sprawled in a corner. The space heading toward a large spiral staircase to the second floor is vacant, but the kitchen beyond it is scattered with dishes, food, and empty packages.

I start when he slams the door shut behind me.

"What do you want?" he asks.

I look back and notice that gun in his hand. He shifts it behind his thigh. If my knees weren't locked, I would have buckled to the floor with the sight alone. I've never seen one this close, and not intended for an intruder like me.

"I, uh…" I stammer. He's tired; eyes dark, hair falling out of its slicked-back do. He looks on edge, like he'll take on anyone who walks through those doors.

A watchdog.

I understand.

"Alice," I say, straightening my spine. I cross my arms over my chest. "I'm here to see her." And I'm not leaving.

His eyes scan me from sneakers up to my jacket. He looks right into my eyes. Yeah, you remember me. "Emmett." I nod.

The barrel points the other way. "Upstairs. And make it quick."

I head up. He watches me the entire way. I look back mid-flight. I say, "I'm sorry … for your loss."

He expels a breath and lets his guard down. He accepts with a nod and turns away.

I do get a glimpse of Edward's grandfather sitting in the living room just as I'd imagine. Robe around his shoulders. Vacant eyes staring at nothing, looking like he's at the brink of death. But then, he looks at me. I don't let it linger. I head up to the top floor hesitantly.

The silence is eerie. Death is in the air. I instantly regret this decision.

I aim for Alice's room, far down to the left. A larger house than ours will ever be. You could get lost in corridors here. I dare not look for his door instead. The fear of this place grips me.

I knock. No answer. I stand in a silent hallway fighting to stay. I hear footsteps down the corridor, and my heart pounds. Fuck it. I reach for the knob, and push.

A mound under sheets is curled in her bed. The lights are out. The stale smell of loneliness and a faint touch of her perfume are in the air. I look around, and even her window shades are closed. A tray of days old food sits untouched at her vanity. The only light comes from a slit of her curtain.

"Alice," I whisper. I close the door behind me. Nothing stirs. I want to run out or crawl in a corner. "Alice, it's me," I call again anxiously. I don't dare to move.

The sheets turn down. I jump. Her bloodshot eyes make a shocking view. Her breath hitches. Tears pour so quickly. She sits up and is already reaching out to me.

I rush to her bed and straight into her arms; warm, shaking, and frail under me.

She sobs.

My heart breaks. I swallow back the tears and pull away to look at her.

"Oh, Alice." My voice gives way. I smooth back her disheveled hair. Sweat is beaded around her forehead, tears build at her trembling chin. I wipe them away. Her breath staggers. "I'm so sorry," I whisper.

But she begins to shake her head. Her eyes grow alarmed, like she just woke. She pushes me away with this desperation.

"Go. You can't be here. Leave," she whispers. She pushes and pushes.

"But … why?" I say above a whisper. She frantically presses a finger to her lips with a hush. She presses it to mine. She pushes me off the bed. I fall to my knees.

"What is it?" I say with a whimper.

She swings her legs over the edge of the bed. An oversized t-shirt hangs loosely around her shoulder, the hem to her knees. A sweater is heavy over that, looking faded and unwoven in places. She's been like this for days, it seems.

She stands and wrings her hands. She turns in circles. I watch her looking lost and delusional.

"Alice?" My chin trembles as I give in to this sadness. She looks like she's lost her mind. I reach out for her. She pulls away.

She's shaking her head and looking around like she's lost something.

"What is it? I'll help you look," I offer.

She looks under the bed. Then over. She spreads her arms wide under her blanket and pats her bed down. When she finds it, she's panting and sits back on her heels beside me. Whatever it is, she's fumbling with it in her hands, caught in the folds of her sleeves. She gets a hold of it with her bare hand and juts out a butterfly knife. The two ends split revealing the blade inside. She flips it and grips it in one hand while pulling me by my elbow with the other.

"You can't be here. Do you understand?" she says.

I nod. My mind runs with all the possibilities. I do understand. This means war for the Cullen family. Me being here makes it look like I'm involved.

She pulls us to the door, cracks it open to look, and closes it back up.

"I'll walk you to the stairs, and you go straight home. Don't come back." She gets lost in thought looking around. She shakes her head. Her short hair is in disarray, waves sticking to her damp cheeks as tears slip down endlessly.

I grab onto her face so she'll look at me. "What happened?"

She trembles beneath me. "So much. It's too much ..." She whimpers. She catches her breath.

"Tell me," I insist. She refuses. "I won't leave until you do," I say.

She rubs her face. The blade a mere inch from her lashes. She grips my shoulders hard and looks at me.

"They almost killed Edward. They cornered them. Pete is hurt badly. Sam is dead. Then dad went after them alone and … It's all a mess."

My stomach plummets.

I didn't know about Sam. He's not in our school, he's older, but I've seen him around the court behind Edward's every footstep.

"Who? Who cornered them? What happened to Edward?"

She holds back and bites down on her lip to keep the hysteria in. She pleads for me to leave and pulls me.

"Come. Now." She beckons opening the door.

"Alice..." I plead. I almost tell her, shake her and yell it right here that she has to tell me if Edward is okay because it matters. But she shakes her head frantically. Her focus blurred and hazy.

She disappears into the hallway. I follow.

She looks around the bend of a wall and flails her arm, beckoning me to come quick. The blade in her hand is ready to cut the air.

I wonder who she would be protecting herself from in her own house.

She hugs me tight at the top of the stairs.

"Go now. Don't worry about me." She pushes my shoulder.

"Where's Edward?" I ask.

We look up. A moan came from a room close by. A sorrowful wail follows. A woman cries out in anguish.

Alice's shoulders drop slightly. She palms her forehead and closes her eyes. She looks stretched thin. Her face blotchy, eyes tired, and skin pale. She shuffles her feet anxiously, debating whether to push me out or run to her mother.

She decides to wave me off. "Please. Just go!"

She quickly sets off the other way toward the noise. I watch as she pushes through double doors to her parent's room. The dim light of day barely casting over a lost and broken woman on her bed. Alice kneels by her. Her sweater billowing behind her, melding with the bedsheets poured over and onto the floor. The doors slowly close shut.

I hold my breath. This is my chance. With my heart beating out of my chest, I look around. I have to find Edward. I will not leave here until I do.

I traverse to the third floor on a narrow staircase.

The attic.

I know his room. After his mother's sewing room, another bathroom to the right, his door is at the end. Darkness envelops me on the last step up. An unfinished space with beams exposed. No walls are up to cover electrical wiring and piping, just the frames and walls around his bedroom door.

I only find a large room and his empty bed in disarray. The mattress is big but half bare. The sheets rumpled and thrown whichever way and on the floor.

While Alice's room is furnished and filled with trinkets and artifacts of childhood memories, this room is bare and empty. Not a pin up on a wall, or a shelf full of cheap metal awards an adolescent would accumulate over the years. Not the same things I remember him having around when we were kids. He must've thrown them all out, only leaving this soulless shell behind.

A record player sits on one side of a desk, where records fill crates beneath it I've never seen. It's out of view, not visible from my bedroom window. What he does have is an abundance of cases and cases of cassettes lining a shelf above. Some books along with them, some old cables twisted around an old Atari we all played with when we were kids. A radio with two cassette slots looks dated by his bed. I've seen that.

What I haven't seen is a couch facing this empty desk used to hold a TV. I see myself roaming around in its gray reflection. The rest of the room is yards of open space, faded wooden floors, leak-stained walls, and powdered blue, chipped paint his mother once chose for her son. Beaming sunlight brightens dust as it dances in its warmth. Dust coats everything he never touches.

No curtains. No life to this lived-in room. No clothes thrown and forgotten by his bed in piles. Nothing but a pair of jeans hanging by the belt around the handle of his chest of drawers. Some T-shirts peek through seams of drawers. His worn sneakers are sprawled by the door.

A dartboard merely hangs by a string behind his closet door, but the darts seem to have surpassed the felt. Dots pierce the walls. The colony of piercings is dense, creating larger craters where the paint chipped off with years of play. The dots fan out to randomness.

Then, I look up.

The high ceiling is full of the culprit darts still stuck to the dried textured plaster. I kind of gasp. They're probably hundreds up there. They look like dragonflies, like WWII fighting jets in green, red, and black stripes with white letters hand painted on the wings. He took the time, or had plenty of it.

I'm betting any girl he brought in here would point and ask but never got an answer from him. I'm betting this is his rage. The rage he keeps inside, lets it out through every flick of his wrist bit by bit, and definitely lets it out on people he hurts.

I wouldn't have to point and ask. I know.

I pick up his pillow, barely there, flat and worn with the weight of his dark dreams. But I bring it to my nose and lips. The smell of him.

Then, I notice red. I tilt my head to see blood stains on the mattress. Gauze is left behind in a long piece. The red, dark crimson, dried but new.

He slept here, he bled here. Never letting himself known through the view from my window.

I look out at that. My cheeks heat up, knowing, seeing how much he … can see through my windows. I'm the distraction, hence the empty room.

I hear voices far away, faint. Muffled, like they're coming through walls. I wonder what is under this room. I think and think. I hurry down the steps as quietly as I can. One look and I know no one is around.

I roam the floor until I figure out it's the library. Its door is slightly ajar. I walk up to the slit and peek through. No one is inside. I check behind me, the hallway is clear. I walk further in.

A room. The shelves all frame a heavy door tucked under high shelves of books. The door is closed, but shadows float beneath the seam, ghosting over the floors. I hear nothing. Not a pin drop.

My heart feels like it'll burst.

"Edward?" I call, barely above a whisper. I freeze. I look behind me, I look before me. My ears swish and swish with the sound of my heartbeat.

The shadows subtly move again around my feet.

I reach out and feel the door. I listen. The lock gives way. The knob barely turned. I pull my hand back. I make a fist.

The door swings open.

Seven sets of eyes stare right back. I gasp. My hand finds my mouth so I won't scream from the start.

Men in suits, some wearing long coats with cigars in hand, stand around. They glare. Slowly, their muscles seem to coil, their brows furrow and some straighten where they sit or stand to get a good look at the intruder.

No one speaks.

It feels like an eternity as I stand here, my eyes adjust to the brightest room I've encountered in this house. I try to make out what I've walked into.

It's a circle. Like a chain, linked, they surround the precious gem in the center. That gem is very unpolished, damaged and stone cold.

I begin to stammer an apology for barging in, but no words come out. Everyone is surrounding Edward who looks up from where he sits at the center. The old wooden office chair beneath him swivels, squealing at its hinges. He sits there in white boxers and a T-shirt sagging at his neckline. Blood stains his shoulder in patches. Underneath, gauze takes up his shoulder and neck.

My lips part.

I let go of this gripping fear that shot through my body. It's instantly replaced with shock. The sight. Him. Bruised and beaten in places.

The eye that isn't sunk into a blood-red socket flickers up to me. The angry thin line his mouth was set in goes slack. His lip is freshly split. His toned arms are relaxed over the armrests. His long, bare leg and foot jut out, lying on the opposite side of his arch. His other toes steeple the stem and wheel of the chair one uses to roll around under a desk. Only now, it's probably used as an interrogation chair. A throne. A seat that will run electrical shocks through his limbs until his heart gives out.

I don't know.

I don't know anything.

Not about this numbing moment, or about what transpires in a war room after a mob boss is murdered.

All I know is I've barged in. I've interrupted a meeting of secrets, of hush tones in conversation. Furious tempers. Minds coming together to plan intricate, genius ways to kill.

Revenge.

I cower. I step back and turn a shoulder to run out. Yet, I can't tear my eyes away from the stone cold stare I keep dear to my warm heart.

Red travels up my neck. I'm instantly embarrassed. Edward doesn't react. No flicker of longing, care, or even recognition sparks his eyes when he looks at me.

I look up at other familiar stares; uncle Jasper to the right, Carlisle sitting behind the desk in the back, and the few nameless, but familiar men who work for them stand around. The rest are strangers with wicked eyes.

The man by the door is different. His posture is frumpy, his clothes dated and ratty. Mounds of dark hair fan around his ears, and in them. Facial hair connects between his eyes. His sly grin carries an unrefined air, the kind you see passing by on the street after the sounds of slurs and catcalls. He smiles, and a gold tooth comes into view. He shifts to get a better look, and his gold rings brush against the knob he pulled on … to reveal me.

"Well, well. Who's this little lady?" he asks. I take a step back when he takes one forward.

I cut my eyes to Edward. He's stoic.

I drop my gaze and say, "Alice. I was just…" I point a thumb over my shoulder.

"Wrong room, gorgeous," sly says.

"Yup."

I make to leave, but he catches my arm. "Say, aren't you Charlie's kid?"

I look at my arm, I look at him. My heart gets going again—no, it hasn't stopped pounding.

This time, when I look back at Edward, he isn't looking at me, but the hand gripping my arm.

Jasper chuckles low from across the room. "You always do this, Joe."

"Come on in, gorgeous," Joe says. His voice rough, his breathing wheezy when he laughs. "There's always room for a pretty lady. Don't you think?" he asks the watchers. He steps aside. "Join us."

I'm the color of red, ripe tomatoes. Fire licking at my neck, up my ears. I pull back my arm, but he won't let go.

"I…" I shake my head and try a grin. "No. I'll just … I'll go find Alice. Apologies for interrupting, gentlemen." I try to seem cool and calm. I shrug nonchalantly and point a thumb behind me. This is the façade I've mastered through the years around males; when I visit Dad's shop, or alone … surrounded by a group of dangerous men who see the reflection of Mom's looks in me.

He tugs. I pull the opposite way. Then, I'm struggling. My feet begin to slide, I'm fighting against this.

I panic. This guy's expression turns serious.

"Charlie sent you?" he asks. "Who did?"

My stomach drops at the mention of Dad. "No." I look him square in his malicious eyes. I'm taking deep breaths, but I'm trying not to look hysterical. "Your hand, Sir."

"Joe," Jasper says with a sigh.

"What do ya say, fellas? Ask her a few questions? Have a seat, gorgeous."

"You heard her. Let her go."

I look past this dirtbag.

Edward spoke. I look at him.

Joe looks back. He looks at Edward, then at Carlisle behind him. Carlisle makes no moves.

Joe chuckles humorlessly. "Mind your own, Kid. Grown up stuff."

Edward tilts his head just so. He stares daggers, like darts, at his head. Chipped paint, colonies of dots. He's an expert. Years of practice.

His aim now is Joe.

The moment I shift my gaze to this insidious man, I hear the squeak of hinges. That chair. The one at the center.

I get a good look over Joe's shoulder, and when I do, I forget about lodging my foot between his legs.

Joe sees me stop. Joe looks back. The sharp letter opener from the desk is in Edward's fist.

Joe's neck splits.

His hand goes limp. I stagger. I lose my footing and fall back into the library

I watch Edward step a foot over him in a straddle, and lean over his jolting body. The knife is blood red, his fist coated. Time and again, his arm comes up and jabs down into Joe's neck. Blood splattering, blood seeping. I see this until the door slowly crawls shut and Edward and a stunned Jasper behind him are out of view.

I hear it; the knife hitting the floor, Edward taking his squeaky, wooden throne, and then this, "I'll kill the next man who tries to defy me and my father's wishes."

I run out.

I don't wait to find out what happens next.

...