A/N: This started out as a one-shot (yes, yes, I know you've heard this from me before!) and is going to be a short (for me) multi-chapter fic. Details at the end of this chapter.

Chapter One

~Fingerpaint and Screaming Ovaries~

The most important kind of freedom is to be what you really are.

You trade in your reality for a role. You give up your ability to feel,

and in exchange, put on a mask.

Jim Morrison

The alarm on my watch bleeps. I glance down in disbelief. It can't be that late already! "Shit." I shove a final book on the shelf and trundle the cart up the aisle toward the circulation desk. "Shit, shit, shit."

I'm supposed to be across town for a dress rehearsal in twenty minutes, and it's a thirty-minute trip under favorable conditions. The metal cart bangs against the wall with a resounding rattle as I shuttle it into place. The next person will just have to shelve the rest of the books.

Ms. Golding turns to glare at me over the spectacles perched on her hawkish nose. "Ms. Swan, is there a problem?"

"No."

"Then why is the cart still half full, and better yet, why have you disturbed the peaceful hush of my library?"

"There was nobody at the reference desk today, and I'm . . . late for my next job."

Ms. Golding sighs. "Why do they allow moonlighting anyway? Very well. Perhaps you can get some work done tomorrow." She returns to her computer, dismissing me.

Bitch needs to get laid. Childishly, I stick my tongue out at her ramrod straight back and yank my lanyard off. My phone vibrates as I rush down the hall behind the main office.

Where R U? ~ Ang

Running L8. Birdface giving me shit. Cover 4 me! ~ B

KK ~ Ang

I slide my phone into my back pocket as I round the doorway to the break room and collide with something solid moving just as fast in the opposite direction.

"Ooph!" I land on my ass, gritting my teeth when the phone digs hard into my right butt cheek.

"Bloody hell!" says the guy who just creamed me. "You all right?"

Stunned, I take him in without answering: well-worn orange Chuck Taylors, long legs covered by loose khaki, bright-patterned geometric button-down, pale skin with a light smattering of scruff on his jaw, and a shock of ginger hair that looks like it needs its own team to tame it. His arms are suspended in the air, like a conductor. The horrified expression in his green eyes causes me to look down because they're focused on my chest.

"What the fuck?" A palette sticks to my T-shirt—my white T-shirt! My mouth gapes, and I look up at the stranger in front of me.

His pale face turns a deep shade of tomato, and he holds a hand out to me. "Shite, I'm . . . uh . . . sorry."

He helps me up then leans over and grips the palette. It makes a sucking sound when he pulls it away, and I cover my eyes.

"Fuckity, fuck, fuck." I moan. "How bad is it?"

"Erm . . ."

I look down. A rainbow of random paint blobs decorates my shirt. "No!"

"Here . . ." Mr. Awkward reaches out and wipes at the paint. His long fingers graze my boobs, and my nipples stand at attention.

I should have worn a bra today.

"Dude, are you fucking finger painting my tits?" I slap his arm.

He lets out a yelp and jumps back a few feet, staring down at his paint-swirled palm with horror.

I can't help but laugh. This guy is awkward with a capital AWK. He's even kind of cute in a geeky sort of way. Then I remember I'm already late, and now I have to stop home for a new shirt. I ball my fists on my hips. "You should watch where you're going, you know? And what the hell are you doing in here with paint?"

His expression turns from confused to incredulous, one brow shooting up.

I grab my purse out of my cubby. "I'm late. You should just . . . just watch where the hell you're going!"

"What are you, bipolar?"

I lean in close and snarl, noting how far I have to crane my neck to look at his comical expression. "And if I am?"

He steps aside and waves me through the door, his face reddening again. "I—uh . . . sorry. I'm, uh, Edward, by the way." He holds his hand out—the painted one.

"And I'm leaving." I brush past him into the hall.

As I leave, I hear him scolding himself. "Great work! Offer to shake with your painted hand, you bloody arse!"

As I push through the door to the back lot, I giggle. I look at my watch, calculate how late I am and how long Angela can cover for me, and realize I have no choice but to go straight to the theater. All traces of my smile disappear.

I hop into my 1966 Mustang Fastback, reveling in the low growl of the engine and the powerful vibration under my ass. The traffic moves nicely, and I make it to The Broadmore in just under twenty-seven minutes—a personal record. There's no parking for blocks, but on another pass by the theater, I see cones set out. Angela spots me and starts waving like a madwoman, grabbing the cones. That girl always has my back.

The reason I come so far from campus to this theater for a crappy-paying job working stage crew is because I'm a coward. I'm majoring in business, none of that "frou-frou, artsy-fartsy shit" as my father likes to put it. I'm also too scared to try out for parts even though, deep down, I love everything theater.

By the time I get out of the car and try to hug Angela, my mind is already in theater mode. What sets need to be prepped, whose costumes need mending, which actors need to be fed lines.

"Whoa!" Angela backs away with her hands out.

"What? Do I stink?" I sniff a pit.

She laughs, shaking her head. "Nice shirt."

I roll my eyes. "Don't ask."

She grabs my arm and pulls me along behind her, chatting all the way. "Newton is on the warpath. I brought him a cappuccino and tried to smooth things over. Shut his pie hole for all of ten minutes. He's all up in arms about some new guy who's playing Zorro."

Throughout her diatribe, we zip up the alley to the side entrance, which leads to the backstage area and dressing rooms. A lime green tandem bicycle with a yellow seat, yellow trim, and white daisies woven into the spokes brings me up short.

"Whose bike? It looks like spring threw up on it."

"Jessica and Lauren."

"No!"

"Believe it. Those two ride here together now. Gag me."

"Jesus."

She pulls me inside, away from that horrific bike. "Anyway, fucking Jessica is in a bitch-snit about her wig. I tried, but she claims you're the only peon worthy of fixing it for her. Seth split his pants—again. Skinny bastard, but what a beer gut! I sewed them good enough for tonight. Oh, and be glad you're late, because Paul was here. Told the good-for-nothing you were off tonight. Thank you, Angie!"

We reach my locker, and I drop my bag on the floor and stare at her. "First, do you ever take a breath? And let me clear the wax from my ears—did you say Paul stopped by?"

"Mm-hmm. He was looking repentant as hell, too. Those dark, puppy eyes and all scruffy . . ."

I slap a hand over Ang's mouth. "No! Don't you do that! He's the devil incarnate. Remember that."

"He was so charming, though."

"The devil is charming—it's part of his allure. Every time Paul opens his mouth, he's lying."

"Ripped as all get out, hot in the sack, protective . . ."

I clench my traitor legs together then pull up the memory of finding Paul in bed with that skank, Leah, from his neighborhood, and my vajayjay withers like a dying rose. God, I want a cigarette.

"Got a cancer stick, Ang?"

"Plenty, but not for you."

"Please . . . just one." Quitting sucks.

"You made me promise not to."

"I give permission for an exception."

"You warned me you'd try that," Angela calls out as she flounces away.

Sometimes, I hate me.

~*O*~

Two hours later, I've coaxed Jess's wig into shape, begged Ang for cigarettes three times, fixed some wardrobe malfunctions, and listened to Newton bitch like an old lady. I'd tell Mike he needs to get laid, except he'd be more than eager to oblige . . . as long as it was with me. Not happening.

The dress rehearsal is a success, but it should be because we've been performing Phantom of the Opera over and over for months. We're about to start working on another play this weekend. New play means double the work—feeding lines, reassuring actors, working on new costumes and sets—but if I have to watch another performance of Phantom, I'll slit my throat. That white mask features in many of my dreams and not in a good way.

I'm tired. I still have studying to do. But Michael Octavius Newton doesn't give a happy shit.

Mike claps his hands together as he paces along the front of the stage. "Everyone, gather around!"

It takes five minutes, but once the cast and crew assemble in a semicircle around Mike, he smiles.

"I want to thank everyone for their hard work these past months. We've had record sales for Phantom, and I think our next play will bring in even better numbers. We'll be putting on a theatrical adaptation of The Mask of Zorro."

An immediate buzz of comments breaks out, drowning Mike's voice. He waits a few seconds before clapping his hands again. "Jessica will play Don Diego's sexy daughter, Elena, with Lauren as understudy. Emmett, you will play Don Diego, so we'll need Bella to work her magic and make you look older."

Emmett's fist-pump dies in the air, his blue eyes wide. "Wait, wait . . . Don Diego is Zorro! He's young and hot, not old."

A couple of snickers pepper the air. Poor Emmett.

Mike smiles condescendingly. "Emmett, we're doing an adaptation of the movie. Alejandro Murrieta is the much older Don Diego's protégé and the new face of Zorro."

"Aw, man." Emmett looks crestfallen.

Mike continues announcing parts. A few of the actors question who will play the coveted role of Zorro.

"Ah, funny you should ask!"

Really, Mike?

Mike stills, looking around the crowd like the drama hound that he is. "We have a new actor joining the cast. He was accepted to Juilliard but has put that on hold for the time being. We're lucky to have him join us as Zorro. I'd like to introduce you all to Anthony Masen!"

Everyone starts talking at once. A mixture of intrigue and annoyance fills the air. It was a dick move to hand over a cherry part to a new actor without discussing it with the cast first.

I drop my head in my hands. This day sucks.

A collective gasp makes me look up. Swinging through the air is a man dressed in black from head to foot. He lands lithely on the stage, one hand on his hip, the other held out with a flourish as he bows to the crowd. Black hat, mask, button-down, trousers, and boots. Is that a black cape fluttering behind him?

Jessica swoons.

A few of the guys grumble.

I roll my eyes, but I'm intrigued. A little.

Anthony Masen detaches the Kirby wire and saunters over to shake hands with Mike before facing the rest of us. "It's a pleasure to meet all of you. Sorry for the dramatic entrance—Mr. Newton insisted."

Holy. Hell.

Anthony Masen's voice is a blend of polite rough-and-velvet that sends my ovaries into screaming overdrive. I'm not the only one. There are swooning, lid-fluttering girls spread across the stage.

The guys glower for all they're worth, many of them standing straighter and puffing out their chests.

This should be interesting. Mike is so fucking stupid. Anthony Masen will probably end up in the hospital before this is over.

Mike proceeds to introduce Anthony to the cast, completely ignoring the stage crew—what a surprise.

"So this is them. First rehearsal is Saturday at two."

"You didn't finish the introductions." Anthony looks toward the rest of us peons.

Mike flaps a dismissive hand. "That's our stage crew."

"No show can run smoothly without one." It's hard to read Anthony's expression behind the mask, but he strolls over and graciously introduces himself to the rest of the crew.

What I can see of his face is angular with a fantastic jawline. His perfectly sculpted lips are fascinating to watch, the occasional smile spreading across their soft-appearing surface as he speaks briefly to each person.

Angela lifts an eyebrow at me. I can almost hear her raunchy thoughts.

He gets to me last. "And you are?"

"Bella Swan."

"Bella—how fitting. My great pleasure." Anthony takes my hand and places a lingering kiss on the back. His lips are warm and even softer than they look. He gazes down at me, and the shadows make it difficult to tell what color his eyes are.

I smile. "Welcome to the madness."

He holds my gaze a few seconds longer then releases my hand. He starts walking away but turns back and leans in close to my ear. "Nice paint job, by the way."

I'm confused for a moment then remember my ruined shirt. Before I can think of a reply, he's already left with Mike.

As soon as they're gone, everyone starts talking at once, just adding to my growing headache.

When the discussion dies down, I enter the wardrobe room to put a costume away, and my mouth drops open. Several ball gowns are strewn over the old couch, and a bunch of mismatched stilettos litter the floor.

Giggles come from behind the dressing screen.

"He'll be doing me by the end of next week." Jess prances from behind the screen in a strapless red dress, her boobs bulging out of the top like overripe melons.

Lauren, also giggling, is right behind her. "That's if I don't get him first!"

"What would Tyler say, slut? At least I'm single."

I stand, hands on hips, and glare at them. "What the hell are you two doing?"

"What does it look like, Einstein? Making myself fuckable for my new leading man."

My face twists with disgust. "Not that—the mess you made! It looks like a brothel exploded in here!"

Angela comes up behind me, spewing a string of curses under her breath.

Jess smirks at me. "This is your domicile. Clean it up, Rainbow Brite."

My temper flares. "What did you call me? I'll rearrange your fu—" I lunge forward, but Angela grabs my arm and slaps a hand over my mouth.

"I'll help Bella clean the room up this time, but you bitches do something like this again and your understudies will have to take over."

Lauren narrows her eyes. "Oh, yeah? Why's that?"

Angela stalks forward slowly and leans in her face. "Because there are no parts for girls with broken legs."

Something in her look seems to scare them quiet, and they rush behind the screen to change, whispering the whole time.

Angela and I smirk at one another and start cleaning up.

I nudge her arm. "Lauren is Jess's understudy."

"That works for me, too."

Ang's boyfriend Ben pokes his head in, looking impatient, so I tell her I'll finish up. It doesn't take that long, but I'm not sure I have the brainpower left to study tonight.

I finally make it out into the cool night air, taking a deep breath. I want a cigarette more than ever.

In the soft glow of the streetlamp shining down on my car, I notice a familiar pair of orange Chuck Taylors. The awkward guy from the library is examining Bluebell. Seriously?

"You're not hatching a plan to paint my car, are you?"

Mr. Gangly nearly jumps out of those ridiculous sneakers. "Jesus Christ! No, of course not!" He runs a hand through that crazy auburn hair, eyes widening comically when I step into the circle of light. "This is your bloody car?"

"Yeah, this is my bloody car." I mimic his British accent perfectly, if I do say so myself. Crossing my arms, I look him over with suspicion. "What are you doing here? Did you follow me?"

"Uh, no. Um, my friend is in a play here at the theater."

"Oh? Who?"

"Anthony Masen."

My thighs clench just thinking about Anthony Masen. A piece of man-meat if I've ever seen one—and he understood the importance of the stage crew, too.

"Well, where is he?"

"Who?"

"Your friend. Anthony Masen?" I raise my eyebrows.

"Oh! Must have just missed him." He rubs at the back of his neck, looking everywhere but at me.

"I'm Bella. You?"

"Um, Edward. Cullen. I told you my name before. You know, when we . . . ran into each other." Edward's lips twitch.

"Ha, funny." I glare. "Get the hell away from Bluebell."

"Huh?"

"My car, Picasso."

"You call your car Bluebell?"

"Got a problem with that, Jack?"

"Edward."

"Oh my God, really?" I mutter, stepping around him to get to my car. "It's been real, Picasso, but I gotta motor."

"Right. Nice to meet you, Bella. Er, sorry about earlier." Edward messes with his hair again. "I have a bus to catch." He waves and starts walking away.

I hesitate halfway into the car. "No, you don't."

"What?"

"Last bus was about twenty minutes ago."

"Fucking hell."

Hearing him curse in that British accent makes me laugh and thaws some of my annoyance. "Oh, get in."

"Really?" Edward smiles, and it lights up his entire face.

"We're going to the same campus, right? It would be really mean of me to leave you behind. You live at the dorms?"

"Yeah. Thank you so much."

Once we're buckled in and driving, I wonder what we're going to talk about for the next half hour. Edward sits with his head bowed, hands clasped between his knees.

What a contrast between Edward's awkwardness and Anthony's suave demeanor. Makes me wonder what they have in common.

"So . . . Edward . . . how long have you known Anthony?"

"My whole life. We . . . grew up together."

"Wow. You two must be close."

"You have no idea." He laughs.

"Oh . . . are you guys . . . partners?"

"No! No, no! Not that kind of close. Not that there's anything wrong with that—if it's what you're into."

God, he sure babbles.

"He's American, and you're British—but you grew up together?"

"Yeah."

He's really forthcoming with answers.

Once we're on the highway, I drive fast, giving Bluebell a workout. I half expect Edward to balk at the speed, but he seems to enjoy it.

He caresses the dashboard. "She's fast."

"That she is. What's your major, Edward?"

"Art history."

"Tough one career-wise. Planning to teach?"

"Maybe."

"Are you an artist?"

"Sometimes." Edward laughs nervously. "How about you, Bella?"

"Me? Oh, I'm a frustrated business major who secretly longs to be on stage."

Edward's brow furrows. "Do you have a part in the play?"

"No, I'm a Gal Friday on stage crew. My dad thinks the arts are a waste of time. Besides, I'm too chicken to try out."

"You seem pretty . . . outgoing to me."

I steer Bluebell onto the off-ramp and flash Edward a grin. "Is that your diplomatic way of calling me a bitch?"

He smiles and shakes his head, refusing to answer. Very diplomatic.

~*O*~

When I finally climb into bed and close my eyes, I replay the sound of Anthony Masen's panty-soaking voice and the feel of his lips on my skin. I reach into my nightstand and pull out Jack the Hammer, picturing those luscious lips and that lickable jaw, topped by the mysterious mask.

I come harder than I have in a long, long time.

~*TMWW*~

A/N: This fic started as a collab for a contest with my prereader and dear friend, Aleea. I ended up writing it on my own because of issues beyond our control, but it will never feel completely like mine. There was time spent hammering out details (and plot holes!), photo bombing each other, and other such activities. She will wave it off and say it was all mine, which is why I'm writing this very public notation. (Ha!) I'm hoping I can coax Aleea into writing an EPOV outtake at some point.

The original one-shot won second place judges' choice and tied for first place public vote in the Wonkyward contest. Anyone who knows me, knows I try not to enter contests anymore because THIS happens—the characters take over and want to keep going . . . and going.

Thanks to my awesome prereaders, Keye, Sandy, and Aleea, and my kick-ass beta/word detanger, SassySue (chayasara). Thank you to the judges of the Wonkyward contest and all those who voted for my story!

I will be posting chapters weekly(ish) as much as possible, and this shouldn't be too terribly long, but I make no promises. A Measure of Grace will continue to post bi-weekly on Tuesdays.