Guess what? SM owns this. I just mess with it.

Also, I'm trying hard not to duplicate scenes, but some I just can't help.

Hope you like.

Chapter Fifteen

We were in the middle of nowhere, some rundown gas station a hundred miles north of Flagstaff, and I couldn't stop staring at Bella while she cleaned the blood off my knuckles with baby wipes. Her legs were wrapped around my waist, her tiny hands dabbing at the cuts like she thought I might break if she pressed too hard.

God, I didn't deserve her. Not even a little.

My hands felt like they'd been smashed with a hammer, but I'd take this kind of pain any day if it meant I got to feel her touch. If it meant she kept looking at me like that—like I wasn't the mess I actually was.

Her shoulders hunched when she saw me flinch. "Sorry."

I grunted, trying not to wince like some weak little bitch. "I'm such a fucking idiot for bare-knuckling that asshole's face," I muttered, flexing my fingers even though it hurt like hell. "Probably broke a few bones."

Her eyes widened, and she shot me a look that said no shit, dumbass. It was fair. "Are you serious?"

I shrugged, trying to act like it didn't matter. Like I didn't matter. "Happens sometimes. Usually, I use the handle of my gun to bash a guy's face in, but that prick just… I don't know. He pissed me off. I wanted to kill him."

I didn't regret it, but the weight of my own words hit me. I wanted to kill him. And worse, a part of me still did.

Her hands froze for a second, but she didn't pull away. She should've. Any sane person would've.

"You know," she said softly, her voice careful but laced with frustration, "that visit didn't solve anything."

I swallowed hard, my throat dry. No shit. Her garbage mom and stepdad weren't going to magically start feeling bad for all the crap they'd put her through. But I wasn't sorry for what I did. They needed to know she wasn't alone anymore. That I'd fucking kill for her if it came down to it.

"It wasn't meant to," I said, keeping my voice even.

"Then why even go?" she asked, her eyes boring into mine like she wanted me to justify it. "All it did was make things worse for us."

Her words stung, mostly because they weren't wrong. But I couldn't let her think it was pointless. "We're in the same spot we were before," I said with a shrug. "It's like sneaking out when you're grounded. What's the point in worrying about it? You're already in trouble."

"Stacking criminal charges isn't the same as being grounded, Edward."

I smirked, even though her words dug under my skin. "It's basically the same." I slid my hand up her thigh, feeling the warmth of her skin. She slapped it away, and I grinned despite myself. "Bottom line? I just wanted you to see those assholes weren't worth your tears. I didn't think you wanted them dead, so I did the next best thing." I leaned in closer, lowering my voice. "I stuck a gun to their heads and made them listen to you. Then that fucker had to go and hit you, and, well… plans changed."

The memory of Phil's hand on her face made my blood boil all over again. My fists clenched despite the pain. If I thought I could get away with it, I'd drive back there right now and bury him in the desert.

Her voice broke through the haze of rage. "Who said you couldn't kill them?"

I froze, my head snapping up to meet her eyes. "What?"

She tilted her head, her expression unreadable. "I mean, I never said you couldn't."

My stomach twisted, and for a second, I just stared at her. Waiting for her to take it back. To crack a joke or call me insane. She didn't.

"But you stopped me," I said, my voice quieter now. "You stopped me, Bella."

She rolled her eyes like I was the idiot here. "When? When we were in front of a police station, Edward? Jesus. I didn't want you going to jail." Her expression softened, and she leaned in, brushing her lips against mine. "I kind of like you."

My chest tightened, pulling me apart from the inside. She didn't get it. I wanted to tell her I loved her right then and there, but the words stuck in my throat. What the hell did someone like me even know about love? All I knew how to do was destroy things. And I couldn't do that to her.

I narrowed my eyes, forcing myself to lighten the moment. "We need to talk about what's doable and what's not in this relationship."

She tilted her head, teasing now. "I think anything goes with us."

I snorted, shaking my head. "You're just saying that to mess with me."

Her grin was wicked, and she leaned in, her breath hot against my ear. "Do my questionable morals turn you on?"

"Everything about you turns me on," I admitted, my hands gripping her hips. I pulled her closer, my voice dropping. "But this bloodthirsty side of you? That's a whole new kink."

I kissed her neck, my lips grazing her skin, and she let out this soft, breathy sound that made my head spin. Her legs tightened around me, and for a moment, it didn't matter how fucked up I was. She made me believe I could be better. That maybe I wasn't a monster.

But then the moment shattered with a loud clap.

"Hey now! You two cut that out!"

I turned, rage simmering just under the surface, to see some old man glaring at us from the front of the car. His wrinkled hand waved at us like we were a couple of kids making out at prom.

Bella burst out laughing, covering her face with her hands.

"Yeah, yeah," I muttered, stepping back from her with a frustrated sigh. "We're leaving."

The guy kept fucking going on about indecency or some shit as he shuffled off. I flipped him off, rattling off every curse I could think of, just in case he needed a refresher on how to mind his own goddamn business.

When I looked back at Bella, her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright. Even when she was laughing, she was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.

"Look at what you started," I teased, smirking despite myself.

"Me?!" she gasped, sliding off the hood of the car.

"Yeah, this is on you," I said, opening the car door for her. "You wrap those legs around me, whisper all kinds of filth in my ear—what am I supposed to do? I'm a man, Bella. I have limits."

She shook her head, still laughing as she climbed into the seat. "Oh, you poor baby. Such a helpless victim."

I leaned in, brushing my lips against hers one more time. "Exactly." Then I shut the door and walked around to the driver's side, already plotting how I'd get us alone again. Because God help me, she was going to ruin me, and I'd let her.

I climbed into the car, trying to adjust myself without looking like a complete idiot. My jeans felt like they were cutting off circulation, and it wasn't helping that Bella had just been all over me five minutes ago, looking like she wanted to eat me alive. My hands throbbed like hell from the fight, but that pain? Easy. The real struggle was pretending I wasn't completely wrecked by her.

I started the Chevelle, revving the engine louder than I needed to because, honestly, I had to do something to stop myself from losing my shit. The tires screeched as we tore out of the gas station, leaving a big, fat "fuck you" behind in the form of burnt rubber. Sixty came fast, and the desert stretched out in front of us—empty, open, and endless. Just like my goddamn self-control at this point.

I tried to focus on the road, drumming my thumbs on the wheel, but I could feel her watching me. It was like her stare had weight, and it hit me right in the chest. I didn't need to look to know her gaze was lingering on my arms, on my hands. She had this way of looking at me like I was something more than I was, like I was worth a damn, and it made me want to rip my chest open and give her everything.

And then she moved, and my brain officially left the building.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her hands grab the hem of her shirt. At first, I thought, no, she's not about to do what I think she's about to do. But she did. She fucking did. Her shirt came off in one smooth motion, and she tossed it in the backseat like it was no big deal.

I whipped my head toward her. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"Eyes on the road, mister," she said, smirking like she wasn't actively trying to kill me. Her hand reached over, casually pushing my face back toward the windshield. "Just drive. Don't worry about it."

Oh, sure. No big deal. Just keep driving while you strip naked in my car. Totally normal.

And she didn't stop there. Next, she unbuckled her shorts, lifted her hips—Jesus Christ, her hips—and slid them off. Then, like she hadn't just blown my entire goddamn mind, she tossed them in the backseat with her shirt.

"Jesus, Bella," I groaned, gripping the steering wheel so hard my busted knuckles screamed in protest. The pain didn't matter. The road didn't matter. Nothing fucking mattered except her sitting there, half-naked and completely unbothered.

Then she reached behind her back, unclasped her bra, and let it slide down her arms. My brain officially short-circuited. To make it worse—because she's her and everything with her is chaos—she looped the lacy thing around my rearview mirror.

I jerked the car toward the shoulder, barely remembering how to drive, but her hand shot out and grabbed the wheel, shoving it back toward the road.

"Keep driving," she said, like she wasn't completely insane.

"What?" I barked, half-laughing, half-panicking. "You can't fucking expect me to keep driving and not touch you when you're sitting there naked!"

Her smirk widened, and there was this glint in her eye that said, Oh, you're screwed, Edward. "Who said you couldn't touch me?" she teased.

Before I could even process that, she slid out of her panties and leaned over the console. Her bare chest pressed against my arm, and her breath was hot against my ear.

"All I want is for you to keep driving," she whispered, her voice low and husky, sending a shiver straight to my dick.

I swallowed hard, my mouth completely dry. "And try not to crash," she added, her teeth grazing my earlobe.

Her hand slid down to my lap, and my entire body went rigid. When her fingers palmed me through my jeans, a low groan escaped before I could stop it. I was fucking done.

"Fuck," I muttered as she unzipped me and reached into my boxers. Her fingers wrapped around me, and I almost slammed the brakes right there, but she pressed down on my knee, forcing my foot to stay on the gas.

The speedometer climbed—seventy, eighty—but I couldn't feel anything except her hand on me. My head fell back against the seat for a second as she started stroking, slow and deliberate, her thumb brushing over the piercing. It took everything in me not to completely lose it.

"Don't slow down," she said, her voice dripping with that mix of authority and mischief that only she could pull off.

Then she leaned down, and my brain fucking exploded. Her mouth was warm and wet, and when her tongue flicked over the bead, I cursed out loud. The car swerved, gravel spraying as the tires kicked up dust. She didn't stop, though. Of course, she didn't.

Her tongue worked me over like she was trying to kill me, her hand twisting perfectly in sync with her mouth. I could barely think—couldn't do anything except feel her. My hands were clenched so tight on the wheel I thought I might rip it off.

"Fuck, Bella," I gritted out, trying desperately to keep the car on the road. But when her teeth grazed the piercing, my hips bucked involuntarily. She pulled back slightly, startled, and I looked down at her, my chest heaving, my eyes wide.

Her lips curled into that wicked little smile of hers, and she sat back, glancing out the window like we weren't speeding down an empty desert highway with her panties somewhere in the backseat.

"See?" she said, her tone smug. "No one's around. You're fine."

Fine? No. I wasn't fine. I was fucking ruined. And she was fucking insane. That was the only thought running through my head as she climbed over the console and straddled me, her bare skin pressing against me like she didn't give a single shit that we were speeding down a highway. My cock was pinned under her, hot and slick where she slid against me, and I could feel everything. Everything.

Her tits were right in my face, those perfect nipples so close I could practically taste them, and she knew exactly what she was doing. She always did. Bella had me in the palm of her hand, and she fucking knew it.

"Fuck, baby," I groaned, my voice tight as hell. One hand stayed on the wheel, the other gripped her ass like my life depended on it, which it kind of did. She was grinding against me, slow and maddening, creating just enough friction to make me want to lose my goddamn mind.

Her lips brushed against my ear, and she purred, "Drive faster." Then she kissed me, her tongue teasing at my neck, her breath hot against my skin. "Show me what this baby can do."

Jesus Christ, she was going to be the death of me. My foot hit the gas, and the Chevelle roared as the speedometer climbed. The road blurred, but all I could focus on was her—how she felt, how she moved, how she was looking at me like I was the only thing that mattered.

I wanted to pull over, throw her in the backseat, and bury myself in her until we forgot where we were. But she wasn't having it. Bella never made anything easy.

She shifted, lifting herself up just enough to press her tits against my face. I couldn't help it—I wrapped my lips around one nipple, sucking hard, feeling her body shudder against mine. She moaned, and it went straight to my cock. My hand slid from the wheel to her hip, holding her steady as she started to rock against me.

"Baby, I swear to God," I muttered, my teeth grazing her nipple as I tried to keep the car on the road. "You're going to get us fucking killed."

Her only response was to reach down, grab me, and position me right at her entrance. I wanted to stop her—needed to stop her—but I didn't. I couldn't. Not when she was looking at me like that, daring me to say no.

And then she started lowering herself onto me, slow as hell, like she wanted me to feel every second of it. My head fell back against the seat, and a guttural groan ripped from my throat. She was warm, wet, and tight, and it was too much, too fucking much.

"Fuck, Bella," I hissed, my hand gripping her hip harder as she took me all the way in. She sighed, her head falling back, and then she started moving, sliding up and down, her pace frantic and rough.

I gritted my teeth, trying to keep my eyes on the road, but it was a losing battle. The faster she moved, the faster the car went, and I couldn't tell if the roar I was hearing was the engine or the blood rushing in my ears.

She grabbed my face and kissed me, hard and messy, her lips demanding everything I had left. My hands slid up her back, pulling her closer, and I forgot where the fuck we were until the car veered sharply to the left.

"Jesus fucking shit!" I shouted, wrenching the wheel back. The Chevelle spun off the road, the tires kicking up dust as we skidded to a stop. The force of it threw her against me, but I wrapped my arms around her, holding her steady.

The second the car stopped, I slammed it into park and grabbed her, my mouth finding her nipple again. She cried out, her hips jerking against mine, and I couldn't get enough. I needed more. I always fucking needed more with her.

"Baby, you're killing me," I muttered, lifting her off me just long enough to lay her back against the seat.

She whimpered, her eyes wide and dark, and it took everything in me not to bury myself in her right then. Instead, I slid my hand between her thighs, my fingers finding her clit. She gasped, her hips bucking against my hand, and I couldn't help but grin.

"That's it, baby," I murmured, sliding two fingers inside her. She was tight, wet, and perfect, and I swore under my breath as her walls clenched around me.

Her head tipped back, her hands gripping the dashboard like she was holding on for dear life, and I couldn't stop myself. I kissed her thighs, nipping at the soft skin, my teeth leaving little marks that only I would ever see.

But it wasn't enough. It was never enough with her.

I pulled my fingers away, ignoring her whimper of protest, and climbed out of the car. The desert air hit me like a slap, cool against my overheated skin, but it didn't do shit to calm me down. I yanked off my shirt and shoved my jeans down, rolling a condom over my cock as I turned back to her.

She was watching me, her chest rising and falling, her lips parted. She looked like a fucking dream, stretched out on the seat, her legs trembling.

I grabbed her ankles and pulled her toward me, her ass sliding to the edge of the seat. Spreading her legs, I pressed the head of my cock against her, sliding it along her slick folds, teasing us both.

"You want this, baby?" I asked, my voice rough, my eyes locked on hers.

"Yes," she breathed, her voice desperate.

I slammed into her, burying myself to the hilt in one rough thrust. She cried out, her legs wrapping around me, pulling me deeper, and I lost it. My hips moved on their own, hard and fast, and I couldn't get enough of the way she felt, the way she fit me like she was made for me.

"Fuck, Bella," I groaned, my lips finding hers, biting, kissing, devouring her. She scratched my back, her nails digging in deep, and it only made me go harder.

It was too much, too good, and I could feel her tightening around me, her walls clenching as she started to come. Her body shuddered, her nails raking down my back, and it pushed me over the edge.

I thrust a few more times, frantic and erratic, before I finally came, spilling into the condom with a guttural moan.

I collapsed against her, my forehead resting on her shoulder as I tried to catch my breath.

"You're fucking crazy," I muttered, my voice rough with exhaustion.

She laughed softly, her fingers tracing lazy circles on my back. "Yeah, maybe I am, but that's why you love me."

The words hit me hard, like a punch to the gut, but instead of panicking, I lifted my head and looked at her. Her hair was a mess, her lips swollen, and she was looking at me like I hung the goddamn moon.

I brushed a strand of hair from her face and kissed her nose, smiling. "That's not the only reason why," I said, my voice soft. Because it wasn't. Not even close.

In the beginning, everything was easy. Blissful, even. Bella and I were living in this reckless bubble, like we'd managed to escape the weight of the world. Days bled into nights, and it all felt like some extended vacation. Sightseeing, laughing, fucking—Christ, we fucked all the time. It was intoxicating, the way we were together, so natural and intense.

Every day, I found myself getting closer to saying those three words. I thought about it constantly, like they were sitting right on the edge of my tongue, waiting for the perfect moment to fall out. But there was always something holding me back. Not because I didn't feel it—hell, I felt it so deeply it scared me—but because Bella was young. She was still figuring things out, and I didn't want to push her into something too heavy.

Still, I couldn't stop myself from imagining a future with her. I'd catch myself looking at her when she wasn't paying attention, wondering if she felt the same. She'd smile or laugh, and it would hit me all over again—how much I loved her, even if I couldn't say it yet.

But for all the good times, there were moments where it all went sideways. Bella wasn't just young; she was emotional in ways I couldn't always predict. I knew her hormones were all over the place—it wasn't her fault, it's just how things were—but I kept forgetting. I'd say something offhand, not even thinking, and she'd take it completely out of context.

That's what happened in Kansas. We were in some no-name town, holed up in another random hotel, just enjoying each other's company. She was sprawled out on the bed, doodling in her notebook, while I half-watched some dumb show on TV. Everything was calm. Perfect.

And then she asked me about the tattoo.

"Would you ever get a girlfriend's name tattooed on you?"

It didn't seem like a loaded question at the time. Just Bella being curious, throwing out one of her random thoughts like she always did.

I barely glanced at her, answering automatically. "No. I'm not a fucking idiot. Why would I do that?"

The silence that followed wasn't the comfortable kind. At first, I didn't notice, too focused on the show. But then it hit me—she wasn't laughing or calling me out for being blunt. I turned to glance at her, and there it was. The stiff shoulders, the way she scooted to the edge of the bed.

I didn't think I'd said anything wrong. I mean, why would I want any of my ex-girlfriend's names inked on me? But Bella had this way of taking things and twisting them into knots I couldn't untangle.

She pretended to be busy with her notebook, scribbling something that I knew wasn't important. I gave it some time, figuring she'd let it go, but the air in the room got heavier with every minute of silence. I was trying to stay patient—really, I was—but after an hour of her dodging me, I couldn't take it anymore.

"What the fuck did I say?" I snapped, sitting up on the bed. "Why are you mad?"

"I'm not mad," she said, her voice flat and unconvincing.

"Bullshit." I swung my legs off the bed and sat across from her at the table, staring her down. "You haven't said shit to me in an hour. What did I do?"

"You didn't do anything," she said, not looking up from her notebook. "I'm just not in the mood to talk."

Her words said one thing, but her body language said something else entirely. She was shutting me out, and it drove me insane. I leaned back in my chair, racking my brain for what the hell had gone wrong.

Then it clicked.

"This is about the Tanya tattoo, isn't it?" I asked, my tone sharper than I meant it to be. "I told you, it's my car. It's not some fucking girl."

"It's not about the tattoo," she said quickly, but I wasn't buying it.

I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table, trying to meet her eyes. "Then what the fuck is it about? Tell me."

She brushed me off, brushing me away, and I could feel my frustration rising. She was shutting me out again, and it felt like no matter how hard I tried, I could never get past those walls she put up. I hated it. Hated the way she wouldn't just let me in.

"Fuck," I muttered, dragging my hands through my hair, pacing like that was going to solve anything. "This is why I don't do fucking relationships."

The second the words left my mouth, I saw her head snap up. Big, wide eyes full of something that looked a hell of a lot like fear. Of course. She'd think I was bailing. That I was done. Like I was really going to walk out and just fucking vanish.

"Where are you going?" she asked, voice soft now, hesitant.

"Out," I barked, yanking the door open. I didn't slam it, but I probably should've, just to make the message clear: I'm done talking, done trying to untangle this shitstorm. The sound of the door clicking shut still followed me as I stepped onto the balcony, the cold air doing jack shit to calm me down.

What the fuck was I even doing? Standing there, fists clenched like a goddamn idiot, trying to breathe through the mess in my head? Like that was going to fix anything? I hated this. I hated all of it.

The talking, the feelings, the way everything she said had a way of sinking under my skin and lighting me on fire. I hated how I could still see her face, those wide, desperate eyes, like she thought I was one second away from disappearing for good.

Fuck, maybe I should. Maybe I should just drive until the tank runs out. Or walk until my legs give out. Anything to shut this shit off for five fucking minutes.

As soon as I climbed into the Chevelle, I knew exactly what the fuck I was doing. This wasn't some dramatic storm-out to cool off. No, I was going to get her food. Because Bella loved shit like burgers and fries, and apparently, my grand plan to unfuck this mess was to show up with her favorite greasy garbage and hope it'd smooth things over. Real genius-level problem-solving. At least it was better than sitting in that damn room, stewing in my own bullshit and finding new ways to make everything worse.

The engine roared to life, loud and angry, just like me. I peeled out of the parking lot, my hands gripping the wheel like it owed me money. I was pissed—at her, at myself, at the whole goddamn situation. Mostly myself, though, because, as usual, I'd said something stupid without thinking, and instead of brushing it off, she'd done what she always does: twisted it into something heavier, sharper. But this time? This time I couldn't even pretend she was overreacting. No, I'd fucking earned this one.

Bella wasn't just some girl. She wasn't someone I could brush off with a half-assed apology or a shrug. She wanted to know she mattered, and instead of manning up and saying, Yeah, you fucking do, I'd made her feel like nothing. Hell of a job, Edward. Gold star for you.

A few miles down the highway, I spotted some shitty little diner, the neon sign blinking "Open" like it was daring me to come inside. The kind of place Bella would secretly love, even though she'd roll her eyes and call it gross. I yanked the car into park and got out, slamming the door harder than necessary. I wasn't in the mood for people, for small talk, for anything that wasn't fixing this dumpster fire I'd lit.

"Two burgers, extra fries, two Cokes," I said at the counter, barely looking at the kid working the register. He nodded, didn't say a word, which was exactly the level of human interaction I could handle.

While I waited, I replayed the fight in my head because apparently, I'm a masochist. I could still see her face—the way she looked at me when she's hurt but too fucking stubborn to admit it. That look is like a knife to the gut every time, and I hated that I was the one who put it there.

When the food came out in one of those greasy paper bags, the smell hit me hard enough to make my stomach growl. Not that I was going to touch it. This was hers. I didn't deserve a single fry, not after making her feel like she didn't matter. Not after fucking this up so completely.

The worst part? Even if I showed up with her favorite food and the best apology I could scrape together, I'd still be the asshole who let her down. Again.

Back in the car, I tossed the greasy bag onto the passenger seat like it was a live grenade and gunned it back toward the hotel. The engine roared, the wheels chewed up the asphalt, and all I could do was sit there and stew in my own goddamn failure. I kept running through what I'd say when I walked back in. Sorry I'm a fucking idiot? Yeah, that about covered it, but it felt like trying to slap a Band-Aid on a goddamn bullet wound.

Because I loved her—Christ, I fucking loved her——but I didn't know how to say it without sounding like a goddamn moron. And knowing me, even if I found the words, I'd still manage to fuck it all up, because that's just what I do. I break shit. Important shit.

The headlights sliced through the dark, empty road, bouncing off nothing but trees and pavement. I was so deep in my own head I barely noticed anything else. Stewing about the fight, trying to figure out how to fix something I'd broken with my own two hands like the goddamn genius I am.

And then I saw her.

At first, it was just a flicker in my peripheral vision—a girl on the side of the road. A huge black duffel bag slung over her shoulder, almost bigger than her.

It took a second—too long—for my brain to piece it together. My stomach dropped like I'd just driven off a fucking cliff.

That's Bella.

Bella. With a duffel bag.

Hitchhiking.

What the actual fuck.

Thanks for reading.