A/N: somewhere in the dregs of a three month stint of insomnia, I wrote this chapter, and then I discovered Nikola Tesla, frequencies and figured out how to sleep again. And I forgot all about this. Literally. Then I read it, not recognising a single word, laughed because insomnia clearly causes me to become demon possessed, and I thought to myself it's way too crazy to post. But hey, crazy is what this story is.
It's crack, folks. Just crack. I'm not sure when I'll update because the kind of state of mind I need to be in to write it only occurs when I've got insomnia. Or demon possesed, and well I've cured one of those apparently.
Yes, I'm still writing Footprints. Yes, It's almost done, but I keep bloody adding to it. I think it's my subconscious way of not wanting to let go. I kinda got attached to frowning daddy dammit.
God, I'll shut up.
Just a recap, this is a cracked retelling of Twilight. Not to be taken seriously. Read it and lament how clearly insane I am, but telling me you wish Bella wasn't so silly or foul mouthed and I'll know the crack part of it went over your head. Don't worry, I won't shame you for it. I'm just as much of a dumbass.
Not beta'd, proofread, yada yada, so if there's an out of place comma, or I slip too many Australian slang words in, what can I say? I don't know - it is what it is?
Twilight AF
Chapter 11
The whole class stares as Clark and I walk into the classroom, so figuring I'd play it up, I grab his arm. Naturally, he has one of his episodes, turns to stone and then sort of shrugs me off him, and somewhere in the back of the room, Jessica laughs.
Bitch.
I tsk obnoxiously, and glancing down at me, he throws me an almost sheepish, apologetic smile.
I shrug, because okay, I get it. When I get too close it makes him want to sink his fangs into me.
And god, just the thought of that makes my loins smoulder.
Maybe I am insane, and I mean, my mother always had her suspicions.
Clark takes his stool, and when I sit on mine beside him, he actually drags his closer to me. Usually, he moves it away, or he angles his head like he has a perforated eardrum or something.
He sits so close to me, in fact, his arm practically touches mine.
I stare down at it for a moment, finding the fine golden hairs on it weirdly erotic. They don't bristle like Buzzcut's, but they're sort of erect like he's about to shove thousands of them into me.
Oh god...
Mr. Banner walks in just when I'm contemplating touching them, wondering whether they feel like needles, or are all downy and soft like they're meant to be.
Why is every damn thing about him such an aphrodisiac?
Everyone in class is getting their rocks off, and I suddenly realize it's because the teacher's dragging an old box television set and a VCR player behind him.
I'm bummed out to be honest. I much prefer to engage in snark with Clark, and I'm not sure I can handle sitting in silence beside him right now.
The lights dim, and suddenly some old guy dressed in a safari suit comes on the screen, looking like he's straight out of the 1970's.
I laugh, and am forced to cough it back, but it's a better alternative than what I almost do. Because right now, in the dark with that ghastly beautiful blood thirsty fucker beside me, I'm pretty sure I'm about to start wheezing.
I turn to him, and realize he's already staring at me peripherally, his arms folded tightly over his chest, and his fists clenched beneath his arms.
The assface always looks like he wants to sucker punch me. I mean, I get that he's holding himself back or whatever, but does he always have to look like I grate on his last nerve while doing it?
Now that I think of it, he's kind of making the face Louis de Pointe du Lac made when he tried not to eat the five-year-old.
That can't be a good thing, and I'd much rather he made that post-climactic expression Lestat did after he offed a couple of New Orleans prostitutes.
Then, to completely contradict me, Clark flashes me a toothy grin, and lowering my head until my forehead thuds to the table, I moan out loud.
His eyes immediately widen, and to hell with it; let Jessica hear. Maybe she'll think he's getting me off beneath the table.
"Bella," he leans down close to my ear and whispers, "Are you okay?"
"I'm dead," I mumble back as the air shoots from his nose in silent laughter.
"That's my line," he practically murmurs, before he sits himself completely upright and turns to a statue. Only his knees are bouncing.
I spend the entire hour with my head on the table and a burning between my thighs that's fast getting out of hand.
This can't be normal.
"That was really boring," Clark notes at the end of class when the teacher hits the lights and the 1973 documentary on fuck knows what comes to an end. I didn't hear a word of it.
"You actually watched it?" I put to him after I stretch my arms and fingers in reflex above my head.
"I watched you," he admits, as his weird gold glowing eyes momentarily darken behind that smirk of his that's both terrifying and erotic as all hell.
"Cheesy," I tease him, pulling myself hastily to my feet as he rises automatically after me. "God, I hate gym!" I groan.
"You spend most of it in the bleachers," he says, walking beside me like he's my personal bodyguard ready to crack the heads of anyone who gets too close.
"And how would you know that?" I ask him suspiciously.
He tilts his head and gives me a funny look, and all at once I get it. Not only can this catastrophically creepy fucker read minds, but he can also see through people's – mainly to me.
"Do you have any sense of personal boundaries?" I huff, because I don't really hate the fact he does it, but I hate myself that I don't.
"Not really," he answers simply, his smile broadening with amusement this time.
It's low-key weird when he's not being hostile to me. At least then I know what to expect, and his insults are hot as fuck.
He walks me all the way to the entrance of the gym, and when I turn to say goodbye, becoming concerned the weirdo might actually try and accompany me into the girls' locker room, I realize he's brooding again.
Jesus this guy and his moods.
"Wha...?" I begin, only to be rendered mute as he raises his hand and grazes the back of his cool fingers across my cheekbone.
Then without a word, he turns and walks away, quickly disappearing into the crowds while I hobble into the hall like both my feet have fallen asleep.
One of Renee's flings once owned a Pitbull. He lived with us for about a month before my mother upscaled – as she called it – and that dog went from looking like he wanted to rip my tits off, to preparing to take a bullet for me, and then getting all drooly and slurping on my toes in the middle of the night.
Batman kind of reminds me of that.
While I'm lost in the thought of Clark putting his tongue all over me while I sleep, closet perv moves beside me and shoves a racket in my hand.
"Wanna be on my team, Bella?"
"Huh?" I turn to stare at him, and then over his shoulder to Jessica who's busy sulking. Apparently, Mike sprinted over to me the instant I reemerged through the doors after changing into my gym clothes. "Are you seriously still—"
"Jessica's angry at me," he hastily explains as if that's justification enough to put the moves on me again, "and it's just for today."
This guy's neediness is borderline pathological.
I think I actually will get Clark to off him.
The best thing about being as uncoordinated as I am is I don't even have to make an effort to whack squinty eyes in the face. It happens organically. Okay, not gonna lie, a few times I actually aim for him but end up hitting myself instead.
"Son of a bitch!" I snap after the third consecutive time as The Clapp—that's what I've decided to call him—eyes me all bugged eyed and authoritarian. He doesn't even have to red card me anymore; he just gives me a look that I universally understand means "get the fuck off my court". Like he's doing now. "Thank the gods," I exclaim, tossing my racket toward the empty basket as I go.
It ricochets off the rim and smacks Jessica in the back of the head. In response, she immediately whips her head around, her face as beet red as Clark's was earlier, and glares at me.
"That's no way to get her attention, Mike," I sing out. "He said he's sorry, Jess," I confide to her, except I say it loud enough that closet perv hears.
"No, I di—"
"Reverse psychology. He told me he really wants to sink his fangs into you. He's just too shy to tell you." I wink for added measure and Jessica looks like she might cry.
The girl's taste in guys is worse than my mother's.
At the end of class, The Clapp makes me help squinty eyes and Jessica collect the discarded rackets and birdies littered all over the place. I suspect he knew I was counting down the minutes before I saw Clark again and is getting revenge.
No doubt, the beautiful fucker's hanging around at the entrance of the gym waiting for me and glaring at everyone like a sociopath as they leave. The guy's poker face is as bad as his respect for personal boundaries.
I ignore Jessica as she flirts with Mike and hog-snorts over his passive aggressive jokes. At least I try to anyway, but Mike, not taking the hint that I don't want to be a three-way in Jessica's attempts at foreplay, decides to nudge me.
"So, you and Cullen, huh?"
Seriously, does this guy think I was bullshitting every other time I've told him Clark and I were getting it on? I mean, I was, but jesus.
"Score one for Captain Obvious," I say flatly. "Yes, Mike, me and Cullen."
"I don't like it," he mutters to himself as though Jessica isn't literally right next to him, hanging off him in a desperate attempt to trap him in a teenage pregnancy.
"Oh, I'm sorry. Am I supposed to give a shit?" He's really starting to piss me off, but the banal assface only ignores me.
"He looks at you like you're...you're something to eat," he kind of tells himself in frustration, and maybe the guy's not as clueless as I first thought, but still, the fact that he got it bang on makes me practically go into hysterics.
"He does eat me, Mike."
Jessica laughs and Mike starts pouting again, because apparently the fifteen hundred other times I've told him to fuck off still hasn't sunk in.
There has to be something wrong with the water in this town. I mean, Jessica's offering her boobs up on a plate right in his face and he's getting all moody about me letting the resident vampire feel me up.
"Okay, tootles, lovebirds," I decide to rub it in, and tossing the three birdies I'm clutching straight at squinty eye's face, I skip off to the locker room to change.
As expected, Clark's waiting for me, leaning up against the wall of the gym looking like a centerfold model with middle-aged man clothes on. I almost walk straight past him, and would have if he didn't reach out and grab me by the sleeve of my shirt.
"What the f—oh, uh, hi, Clark," I say in a fluster. He still looks aggro, but at the same time, kind of weepy.
"Edward," he corrects me as his smile broadens and that's when I realize it's still from amusement. I'm guessing he heard my conversation with squinty eyes, and before I can call him out on it, he continues, "You said you'll call me by my name when I fess up. I have."
I shrug. "But I like Clark."
He sighs audibly and mutters "Headache" beneath his breath. "Got sent to the bleachers again, hey?" he adds matter-of-factly, having the audacity to flash me a charming smile when I turn to him and contemplate being outraged.
"I'm not flattered by this, you know," I state.
I am, and I hate myself.
He opens his mouth to no doubt say something snarky, but instead gets that sociopathic look on his face again and glances over his shoulder.
Mike's walking away in a pout in the opposite direction.
"Just kill him and get it over with. I'd consider it a personal favor," I add, winking when he turns back and catches my gaze.
For a moment I think he might laugh, before his expression turns back to being hostile. "You really shouldn't tempt me."
"You perv on me at night and stalk me during the day, you have nothing to get moody about," I preempt him before he starts hurling abuse at me again.
He blinks and doesn't argue, so he knows I have a point.
We walk in silence for a moment with me trying not to fall over my feet as I attempt to keep up with him, and Clark with his fists clenched as though he's about to start throwing punches.
By the time we get to his car, I realize it's surrounded by a bunch of idiots all drooling over Rosemary's convertible.
Clark scoffs to himself but says nothing, and after opening the passenger side door for me, he pulls himself behind the wheel and guns the engine.
"Are you angry?" he asks, sounding distracted as he reverses out.
"Not really, but there's a principle, so I'm faking it," I say simply, watching from my periphery as he immediately breaks into a grin.
"Don't worry, my apology was going to be just as fake."
"Well, you clearly have zero remorse for being a creep and a weirdo," I state, turning to slide the window down.
I'm starting to get all hot under the collar again. I think I may have contracted some kind of persistent arousal disorder.
"If I wanted to, I'd just take you by force," he says lightly.
"Uh, please do."
Clark turns to me, his brows shooting northward, and that's when I realize I'd just spoken those words out loud.
"I'm sorry?" I think he looks appalled again, except his neck is getting all flushed and blotchy.
"I-I mean, what are you waiting for?" Oh god, this is starting to go downhill.
Only one brow raises this time, and that shrewdness he's good at snaps back on his expression. "Be careful what you wish for," he says to himself again, but I heard it. I think he meant for me to.
"You want my blood, right?" I point out as he starts to frown and immediately gets broody. "So, take it, get it out of the way. Don't you think I have a right to know whether you want to be around me for me?"
He stares at me this time, and the gorgeous asshole looks like I just staked him. Until he looks pissed off again. "Should I just fuck you to see if you want to be around me for me," he turns it back on me like a sarcastic, testy fucker.
"It's a perfectly legitimate suggestion, so screw you!" I bite back.
"Do you only want to fuck me!?" he snaps in some kind of accusation.
"Do you only want my blood!?"
"This again," he grumbles to himself, his face clouded and terrifying as fuck.
"You can't answer, can you? Hypocrite asshole." I fold my arms across my chest and turn away from him, but I think I might be hyperventilating, because that idiotically beautiful bastard was staring at my lips the entire time.
Okay, maybe it was my neck.
Fuck.
"I wouldn't be able to stop," he speaks up quietly, just when I was convinced he was going to give me the silent treatment all the way home.
"Huh?"
"If I took your blood. I wouldn't be able to stop until I bled you dry," he clarifies stiffly, staring ahead of him as his weird gold, banana-colored eyes look like they're about to set fire to his hair.
"Oh, well, I mean, just syringe some out and drink it from a Stanley cup," I suggest with a shrug, but I'm not really serious. Okay, maybe I am, because if he just wants my blood, I can live with that, but there better be some naked quid pro quo. "What?"
He's suddenly staring at me like I'm out of my mind. And like he wants to slap me. "You're the strangest girl I have ever met."
"In the category of strange, you definitely have me outranked, Clark," I say sardonically.
Being called strange by a vampire has to give anyone a complex though.
He definitely slipped LSD in my lunch.
"I mean, I've given blood before," I add when he continues to stare at me like I'm high. "Next time, we can break into the blood bank after dark and take it back."
He's shaking his head at me now, looking kind of bewildered. "...What? And... how would I reciprocate that?" he kind of strangles out, and I...
Wait, is this beautiful fucker actually considering it?
Oh, hell yes.
"Reciprocate?" I squeak, but I can't help it. He looks as aggro as he does horny and I think we're about to have our own Elizabeth, Darcy proposal scene in the rain.
Shit starts to buzz, then I realize it's his phone, and we're parked in front of my house.
He pulls it from his front pocket—it's one of those Galaxy flip phones—opens it and brings it to his ear. "Yes," he speaks lowly into it in full phone sex mode that I don't think he's aware of.
That's when I notice it. He's rock hard.
This beautiful creepy fucker has a full erection while sitting half a foot away from me.
I'm mid swoon, when the reality that it's probably over the fact that I offered my blood to him, brings me down.
I mean, Lestat only gets off while drinking blood, so I don't know why I'm even disappointed.
Even if he was horny in the conventional sense, it's not as if he's going to take my v-card in the front seat of his girl car.
He ends the phone call, or whatever it was, because all he really did was strangle out one-word answers, looking like he wanted to tell whoever was on the other end to fuck themselves. When he looks at me, he's still simmering with all that creepy erotic hostility.
"Can you not look at me like that?" I demand, even as I sit ensnared while his eyes start glowing out of his skull again.
He keeps staring at me, right into my soul. No doubt he's trying to get around my Dolly Parton radio wave frequency, or he's trying to distract me from his raging boner, but whatever, I'm going along for the ride.
"Not yet," he eventually speaks up while looking directly at my lips this time.
"Are you going to kiss me, or are you just scoping me for lip veins," I decide to come right out and ask, sounding like a complete lunatic, because I mean, Brad Pitt sucked blood from that prostitute's lips, and maybe Clark's just as inventive.
"No," he replies, immediately severing his gaze, but he's beginning to smirk again, so I try not to get too bummed out that this beautiful assface just rejected me again.
"You know, Clark, if you like eating cougars, my mother's not too far away," I say for reasons completely unknown, and I'm starting to think he read all those drug pamphlets Charlie left in my room, after he got bored of getting off over my erotic dreams, and decided to experiment on me.
He laughs this time, all crooner, triple malt whiskey smooth that causes a solar flare in my knickers. "And you call me weird," he tells himself again.
He closes his eyes, and I take a moment to spy at what's happening below. Naturally he catches me, pulls the one eyebrow shit on me again, and appears to hesitate. For a fleeting moment I think he's about to offer me a vampire show and tell, because his gaze goes just as low as mine just did. "I'll pick you up again tomorrow," he says instead, sidelining me.
"'Kay." I reach for the door handle, jerk it open and step out. He doesn't stop me, either, which really bums me out. My knees are weak and threaten to buckle beneath me, and I'm pretty sure I'm wheezing for real this time.
"Hey, headache," he calls after me just as I make it to the safety of the porch railing.
I turn around, slip and almost go ass over tit. "What do you want?" I say, when I right myself, covering up the humiliation of his multiple rejections with irritation.
"I wasn't scoping your lips for veins," he says, and then he winks, flashes me a smile that hits my erogenous zones like a nuclear blast, and then he's gone, his girl car zipping down the street in a flash.
I laugh, realize I can't feel my face, and then headbutt the front door.
That night I dream Clark drank my blood through my lips, only they weren't the lips he was staring at earlier. Even in my dreams I get cockblocked, because just as everything starts to get toasty, I wake up. I'm pretty sure my wantonness wakes up Charlie too, because five minutes later Loretta Lynn starts playing on his clock radio.
It's three a.m.
And my bedroom smells of Windex.
. . .
I fall asleep again an hour before my alarm, and wake up to my loins sizzling. Only to realize it's Charlie frying up bacon in the kitchen. I stumble downstairs, restless as fuck and moaning irritably to myself.
Charlie turns to greet me, meets my eyes for half a second and then hastily stares at the ceiling the way people do when women whip out their boobs in public to feed their kids.
"H-hey, Bells. Sleep well?" he asks, stammering.
"Okay," I answer, wondering whether we've got our wires crossed, until I catch sight of my reflection in the door of the microwave.
I look thoroughly spent as if Clark had his way with me last night when I was smack bang in the middle of REM.
I would not put it past that pervy fucker, but I keep offering it up and the guy keeps rejecting me. Sure, he might be a serial feline killer, but I'm starting to suspect he's a prude.
"Is there any Tylenol, Dad? I feel like I have a fever, and last night I had this really horrible stomach ache," I say, sounding a smidge too vague in attempt to preempt his suspicions so we don't both die from mortification.
"Oh well, sure." He clears his throat and then leaves the room. A few minutes later I hear him loading his gun, and have this horrible feeling he knows Clark's sneaking in my room to get me off and those bullets are for him.
Is Clark bullet proof? Maybe I should warn him.
He leaves not long after, without eating breakfast, or getting me any Tylenol, and not five minutes later, Clark rocks up in his hatchback like he was staking him out from around the corner.
I practically skip to the door, and am then forced to retrain myself and act all aloof while my body reminds me again that it does, in fact, have a functioning clitoris.
Last night I Googled whether Windex has aphrodisiac properties; apparently, it's inconclusive.
As I'm making my way down the drive to his girl car, while fighting the urge to start cartwheeling in my barely concealed attempts not to fall flat on my ass, I notice Clark's making a concerted effort to play it cool as well.
Asshole.
The front passenger side window is down, and leaning into it, I grab his attention. "My old man's onto you, Batman. Are you bullet proof?"
"Get in, headache," he says with half a smirk and a roll of his weird as hell eyes.
I do, more eagerly than I really wanted to appear. "So..." I begin, "what did you do last night? I mean, other than watching me have erotic dreams about the local high school vampire?"
"When did you get a chance to dream? You barely slept," he contradicts me dubiously.
"You have no shame." I reply, only semi affronted this time, because how many times is he going to watch me sleep without attempting to take advantage of me? I think I'd prefer that over constantly getting rejected by someone this creepily beautiful. "Can you at least pretend to be respectable? Would the good doc foster daddy be happy to know one of his guardians is a pervert?"
"I'm not the one answering questions today, headache," is how he decides to answer.
I scoff. "You watch me sleep, stalk me with your telepathy, and then talk to me like you're my father. You know how messed up this whole situation is?"
"Believe me, you're preaching to the converted," he mutters to himself as he turns over his engine.
His car's as weirdly quiet as he is, but then, maybe I'm still hung over from John Boy crashing around town like an alcoholic. "You kill Mike yet?"
He sighs like I'm exhausting him already. "I don't kill people anymore. At least not without exception."
"So, you have a conscience when it comes to killing people, but not when it comes to invading the privacy of innocent young girls probably a thousand years younger than you. Duly noted."
"You're an innocent young girl, are you?" he puts to me like he's on the verge of laughter. "Who is it who's constantly accosting me for sex?"
"Well, isn't that what this face"—I thrust an index finger an inch from his nose—" is meant for? Or is it just a fringe benefit?"
For a moment he appears stumped, and then he starts blinking like Charlie does whenever women's issues are brought up. "You're really perceptive. Anyway," he shakes himself from whatever's got him all uptight again, "It's my turn to ask the questions, so shut up."
"Fine," I grumble. "What do you want to know?"
"What's your favorite color?"
"Why whatever color your eyes are, Edward," I play it up and answer in a deliberately slurpy, coy voice. It's kinda true though, because apparently, I really am my mother's daughter.
The alternative is being like my father whose hobbies include working, fishing, talking about the native tree species of Washington, and pretending he has something in his eye when he reads the word tampons on the kitchen shopping list.
Clark groans and then releases one of his hands from the steering wheel to bury his head into his palm.
"Please be serious," he complains.
"I don't know. I never really thought of it."
"I don't believe you," he replies reaching toward me. For a moment I think he's going to run his fingers across my cheek again like he did the day before, but instead he tugs on a strand of my hair. It's kinda playful, but it reminds me how he interacts with his little crackhead buzzcut foster sister. And that can't be good.
"What's your favorite song?" he asks just as I'm contemplating jerking on his hair in turn.
It's not a bad idea considering we're already at school and people are staring at me sitting in his car beside him like I'm a praying mantis.
"People Are Strange by The Doors?" I answer truthfully. It's true. I became slightly obsessed with it after binge watching The Lost Boys. It was a lost cause though. The Mullets kept throwing me off, and the vampire daddy does not look like Dr. Zeus God of Olympus, but my creepy Uncle Lester who's pervier than Clark.
He does the one eyebrow thing and leaning forward, he flips open his car's glove box. "Do you like Debussy?" He hands me the CD, and I laugh because not even my old man listens to CDs anymore.
"Debussy's okay. Kinda depressing, but hey..." All at once I get why he likes it.
"Kinda depressing?" he quotes me.
I shrug. "I'm seventeen, not thirty-five like the UFC fighter you call a brother. What would I have to be so broody about? I mean, other than the fact my mother abandoned me in hillbilly hell to go on the road with her deluded boytoy."
"Hillbilly hell isn't so bad, is it?" he asks, his eyes turning weepy again.
"It has its perks. Are you going to bombard me with these questions all day?"
"Perhaps."
"What if I plead the fifth?"
He laughs lightly. "I'll drag it out of you."
"You know, I wouldn't object to that." I wink, making him almost blush.
"You say that now," he replies, and then lickety-split he's out of the car and opening the door for me.
"You're almost a gentleman when you're not breaking and entering into my bedroom at three a.m."
"I told you, I'm desensitizing myself to your scent." He rolls his eyes again, and seriously there's no way this beautiful fucker wants anything from me other than my blood. He's clearly treating me like the kid I am.
"You seem pretty desensitized."
"I wouldn't stake your life on it," he says under his breath, instantly shifting back to moody and aggro. "What's your favorite movie?" he kinda barks out at me.
"Interview with the Vampire," I answer, matching his tone.
He snorts and half laughs humorlessly. "I walked straight into that one."
"You did. Quit firing off questions at me like I'm on jeopardy. It's annoying."
"Well, how else am I supposed to get to know you?"
"Like a normal person would. Over time. Isn't that what you and your weird ass family are trying to fake? Being normal?"
"I..."
"You're failing miserably by the way. No one's buying it. They just think you're all inbred."
He almost chokes. "Um—what?"
"Supposedly not related, but you all have the same color eyes that glow in the dark, and the same pallor like you've all been in a Russian gulag for half a century."
He scowls at me, but at the same time, he's almost smirking again, so I'm pretty sure he's not going to start hurling abuse at me. Still the assface doesn't get a clue and continues to pester me with twenty questions between every damn class, and even at lunch break where he isolates me at his regular table in Siberia.
"You know, I used to babysit one of my mother's fling's kids. He was three and even he didn't ask as many questions as you," I say drolly, flatly ignoring his latest question of what flowers I like. I mean, I just came from Phoenix. What did he expect me to say? A cactus?
I figure he takes the hint because after the bell signals for sixth period, he walks beside me in silence to bio and takes his stool, brooding again.
"Stop it!" I slap the table as he opens his mouth to continue cross-examining me, and just as the entire class turns deadly silent, Mr. Banner walks into the room dragging the same 1987 television set and VHS player on a trolley like he did yesterday. "Oh god, I'm gonna die."
One thing's for certain; I will not survive another hour with him in the dark. Awake that is.
Clark starts muttering to himself, jerking his stool slightly away from me, and when Mr. Banner hits the lights, I face plant the desk and moan lowly.
Peripherally, I notice him side-eyeing me. I ignore him, gripping the sides of the desk as I fake menstrual cramps. Once the lights eventually go on again, I realize Clark looks as post climactic as I do. His eyes are kind of animated, even as his expression remains dubious. Then without a word he pulls himself to his feet and walks me to gym like he's my seeing eye dog. He does the same thing he did yesterday as well. He caressed my face, scowls at me, and then leaves in a huff.
It's hot as fuck, and whatever the hell he did to me, I end up with an ocular episode, where everything I look at has weird auras. I don't even fake it when I whack squinty eyes in the nose with my badminton racket. Or Jessica when I take out her boobs. Eventually, The Clapp sidelines me and I sit the class out going fetal and almost falling over the side of the bleachers.
It doesn't even occur to me that closet perv hasn't spoken a word to me the entire day. That's when I start laughing hysterically at the idea that I'm meant to be wounded by his silent treatment when I literally have Clark getting all quasi erotic with me every time he turns his outrage in my direction.
The Clapp asks me if I'm okay. I tell him the devil's waterfall is flowing, he turns beet red and then shuffles back to cheer on Mikes badminton solo. Jessica pretends to sprain an ankle and I almost keel over laughing.
I'm pretty sure Clark's back to putting spells on me when I sleep.
I don't remember getting dressed again afterward, but when I exit the gym, I'm fairly certain I forgot to put my bra on.
To hell with it, I deliberately took it off, and I don't even hate myself over it.
He's stalking me outside the gym again, and because I have no damn idea what mood he's going to be in from one minute to the next, I don't even bother guessing. Right now, he seems less hostile as he leads me to his girl car in the far end of the lot.
He eats big kitties and drives a Volvo like he's a tennis mom. How does that even work?
He holds me hostage in his car all afternoon asking me weird as fuck questions like what summer smells like in Phoenix.
"It smells like earth and sweat," I state candidly. "So, what does Chernobyl smell like in winter? All radioactive?"
"I'm sorry?" he asks vacantly. He's staring at my lips again. And looking pissed off.
"Never mind. It's starting to get dark. You going to release me? My old man has a gun, don't forget?"
"I'm faster than a speeding bullet, remember?" he gets all snarky and sarcastic again. "He's going to be home soon."
"Do you have his schedule committed to memory, or something?" I ask suspiciously.
"Something like that," he admits, failing to hold off the smile.
"You're pretty proud of yourself, aren't you."
"Incredibly." He scoffs again, he does that a lot, and then kind of gets a far off look in his eyes and begins to space out.
"Erm…hello?"
His eyes drift back to mine and his brows raise in question.
"I probably should go."
"Not yet." He takes a stiff breath.
"Okay, well... You're acting weirder than usual."
"Shit..." he mutters, his expression darkening.
"Huh?"
"Charlie's coming," he explains. Then leaning over me he opens the door as though I'm a decrepit. Except in the next moment, he sort of has an episode and convulses away from me. "Better get going."
"I'll take 'the pervy, supposed teenage vampire from Forks' for a thousand, thanks, Alex," I say sarcastically.
"What?" he replies blankly and sort of distracted as his eyes turn toward the oncoming car that's suddenly blinding me.
I know it's not Charlie. He always drives down the street with his headlights off as though he's trying to bust me unawares getting up to no good with Jacob Black.
Or maybe he's noticed my bedroom smells like Windex too.
"Bye, Clark," I say dryly, exiting his car and slamming the door behind me.
It's pouring down, I barely register it, except my mouth's open and filling up with water because Clark's turned to stone, staring at the oncoming car, looking sociopathic again.
He ignores me, or maybe he doesn't hear, but as the headlights aluminate his profile, I'm almost convinced I can see his skull behind it.
The next thing I know, he's revving his girl car, back to his usual aggro, moody self, and then he's burning rubber down the street.
"What a weir—"
"Hey, Bella," an overly cheerful, friendly, very familiar voice interjects.
"Jacob?" I utter, staring through the wall of water to the local, native hottie who's emerging from the car Clark was just side-eyeing.
Right on cue, Charlie's cruiser comes down the street, headlights off—until he notices me on the side of the road and hastily switches them on at least. That's when I catch sight of the other occupant in the car.
Jacob's dad, Billy Black. Or is it Willy Black?
Whatever, I immediately recognize him from the last time I visited Charlie, when he and Willy staged an intervention about Jacob and I getting caught feeling each other up.
He's still the same, except he's sort of shaking in his seat, his nostrils flaring and looking more hostile than Clark just was.
Jacob notices the weird way his old man is acting and sort of looks sketchy, but that's when I get it.
Clark and Willy recognized each other, and maybe Willy is Lex Luthor.