Plenty of you speculated about Bella's whereabouts... will she be at the club? I guess you'll find out soon whether or not that's the case *hides*
Bella
"What's up with you?"
"What do you mean?" I try to play dumb, try to focus on the words in my textbook instead of the ones coming out of her mouth. Escaping this class by talking to Jasper is the best thing ever.
"You look like you had a bad burrito for lunch. Positively nauseated and positively sick. Do not throw up on me or our notes, or I'll kill you, Bell."
I felt fine. I was fine. Until Mrs. Morrison's OB decided she had to be on bed rest for the rest of her pregnancy. Until she came in.
She's all perfect with hair Goldilocks, or Paris Hilton herself would be jealous of. Today's outfit looks ridiculously expensive, tailored, and imported from some part of the world's fashion week. It's stylish yet very modest, a long knitted skirt that hits her at her calves. It's the color of the sky outside. Blue with streaks of white. She probably has a walk-in closet, which all the Vanderpumps are envious of. The worst part of it? She is smart as fuck. She's like a fish out of water in this faculty. I bet she went to all sorts of fancy schools, writing incredible essays that could land her a spot in some literary historian gig. What the fuck is she even doing here, teaching seniors about Shakespeare? She's much too eloquent for this job. Half of my peers don't even know what she's talking about. Three asked about difficult words she's using. At least ten look like they have zoned out the minute the word 'abhor' came out of her mouth. Even the jocks stopped commenting on her general hotness twenty minutes into her class.
"Mrs. Cullen?" I roll my eyes as yet another one of my foolish classmates has another mindnumbing question. The voices drift around the room as I stare blankly at my notes, my fingers toying with the rubber band around my wrist.
I haven't seen the Mr. to this Mrs. since The Incident that Sunday morning. At night, I've been kicking myself for the way I overstepped. I can't believe I had the guts to talk to Mr. Cullen like that. I even called him Daddy for Christ's sake. I cringe at myself every time my brain so graciously gifts me a replay. But I also think about the way he was looking at me, the way his eyes gazed over my body, inch per inch, heating me from the inside out, as if he was devouring me. I even feel it now, just by thinking about his hypnotic, jade eyes.
"Dude. Are you sure you're okay?" Jasper interrupts my thoughts again, jamming his elbow into my side. I scold him with my eyes. I don't think Jasper's diversions are even working by now. I'm too wound up, too much in my own head.
"Shh."
"I mean it, you were all pale before and now your face is entirely flushed. Do you have a fever?" Jasper reaches over, the back of his hand assessing my forehead, a worried frown in between his brows. I almost sigh and lean into his cool touch.
"Excuse me, Mr. Hale, are we interrupting you and Miss Swan in some way?" Her voice cuts through our bubble harshly. I sigh, irritated. Luckily Jasper speaks for me so I don't have to address the perfect Mrs. Cullen personally.
"Excuse me for the interruption, Mrs. Cullen… I believe Isabella needs to go home. She's hot to the touch and hasn't been herself today." I resist the urge to snort at Jasper and his usual charm.
"You're sick, Miss Swan?"
I nod absentmindedly. Mrs. Poised cocks her head to the side, inspecting me with narrowed eyes.
"Fine." It's almost like she's insulted someone has interfered with her curriculum. "Pack up and go home. Are you okay to drive?" She jots something down on a notepad on her desk and doesn't even look at me again. I swear she's got no maternal bone in her body.
"I'll be fine, yeah. I live close by."
"Text me when you get home," Jasper whispers once I zip up my bag. I wish he could drive me home, anyway, my fingers curled around the strap of my bag tightly, my breathing shuddering as my spine chills. Jas is right, I do feel feverish, unwell.
The air feels heavy, polluted with regret. I can't help but feel ridiculous for what I tried with Mr. Cullen. They should lock me up and have me brainwashed. What is it about this man that calls out to me like this? It's like he's magic or a curse. God, if anyone knew, I'd be mortified. I couldn't even tell Jasper. And we usually don't spare any details whatsoever. He's my best friend and has been forever. Jas wouldn't ever judge me. Or anyone else. But I can't get those words out of my mouth. What am I supposed to say, anyway? Hey, I tried to kiss my neighbor. By the way, he's married to our substitute teacher and I also acted like a cat in heat.
Man. I make myself sick. Jasper is right. I haven't been myself at all. I need a reset, something to take my mind off of this.
Mom's not home when I drive up to the garage. There's a load of laundry going though, so she's been here not that long ago. When I get to the kitchen, there's a note. Mom's not going to be home for dinner because she has a meeting. But there's money for a pizza hanging on the fridge.
I text her I'm home, and not feeling so great. I don't want to worry her at work but I know she'll have my head if I don't say anything at all. Something about mothers and them always wanting to know what's up, even if they can't do anything about it.
The mail is scattered on the kitchen island, but the little pile next to my mother's business mail stands out. It's one magazine I've been subscribed to for ages and a single letter. The envelope weighs heavy in my hand. It's an expensive paper that makes me think of wedding invitations. I frown, since there's no return address. I don't even know anyone who might be getting hitched. Plus, they'd send my mother an invite if it's family.
Sitting on the island, feet dangling, I rip open the letter, heat rushing to my cheeks once my eyes glance over the elegant script and the signature at the bottom.
Oh, my gods. I almost get a coronary.
Bonjour, ma petite souris…
Ah, yes. I've resorted to juvenile acts to be able to get my thoughts out to you. Because there is just no other way, is there?
I'll be frank with you, petite princesse. There is no logical explanation for the way you've been dancing through my thoughts. It's been in a constant loop, no shuffle, no refreshing. So much, so differently that it intrigued me. I should be distant and not seek you out. Because why would I? I shouldn't have to hunt for the little mouse that made my cock hard and my heart beat faster. She should come out to me instead…
I'm not one for romantic little letters, Souris. This is the most I can do. This doesn't make any sense, but why should everything make sense in the first place? I'm a lawyer and I know I'm bending so many rules when it comes to my marriage contract. But I can't stop thinking about you. I can't seem to get your words out of my head, either. So let's get this over with, let us break, discover, and dismantle this incredible hold you have on me.
Run with me.
Sunday, 6 am.
I don't recognize the address he's written down at the end. What I do know, is that I've never in my entire life, felt like this. I don't know what this is, or what it means. But apparently, the words I thought were so silly have made an impact on the daddy next door.