Disclaimer- Ms. Meyer owns everything Twilight and powerful. I own everything else that you probably find wrong, horrid and horribly offensive here. I'm ashamed. A monster. Hate me... kindly.

^^Chapter One^^

^^In These Complicated Winds of Change^^

(4 years ago…)

Tonight was a bust. Emily would have been a good lay. She'd give it up easy. Two seconds is all it would have taken, but I don't give enough of a fuck to wait around for her. It's not worth it. Even to get my dick wet. I just want to get home.

"C!"

I scowl, and when I turn, my don't-give-a-fuck-face is back on. "What?"

Fred knows it's not a question, but it won't stop him from acting like it was.

He moves through the crowd toward me, two brunettes under his arms. They're all glassy-eyed and fucking wrecked, but it's all the same to him.

He runs his tongue across his teeth, his grill gleaming in the strobe lights, looking like cheap tin.

"Where you headed?" he asks, narrowing his eyes.

"Got some shit of my own to take care of," I answer and continue walking out to stop the rest of his bullshit.

Fred's old in the game. He'd lay anyone else out for pulling that shit on him, but not me. Messed up as it is, I'm his golden boy. I'm young, and he sees potential in me, hoping I'll get with his official crew one of these days.

My answer is the same as when I pulled my first job for him: Dunno. We'll see.

He knows I'll do it, though.

Fuck. Who knows? Maybe I will. Got nothing better to do.

In the alley behind his building, the street air hits me hard. I suck in deep on the staleness, light up a smoke, and start walking. The music pounding out of Fred's speakers follows me down the sidewalk.

The party's wild. Can't think of one that wasn't.

He would have convinced me to stay if I'd given him the chance. Bastard doesn't like being refused.

All this is fake, and I'm not feeling it tonight. They kiss Freddie's ass because he's what's big and bad in this shithole town, and it's better to be on the side his gun isn't aimed at.

I know it's shit, but for now, I do what I have to.

Who gives a damn, anyway?

For the shortest of moments, I think back to my mother. She's still holding on to the hope that I'll get my head right and get my ass back home. Teen runaway can't be looking good in the smallest damn town of them all. It's screwed up, what I'm doing to her, but there's nothing I can change now. I'm never fucking going back.

"Shit." I tug my jacket collar up and duck my head to protect the flame on my smoke as it starts to rain.

Fuck this. I start jogging down the block, trying to get out the damn cold.

The back alleys are my usual way in and out. Keeps the feds off my back, and now, it helps keep some of the rain at bay as I dodge in and out of them.

I stop abruptly at a noise. There's a sound muffled near the ground. It's so soft it's almost not there at all.

My body pivots instinctively, searching the dark for anyone that could be out there.

Aw, fuck. Just what I need tonight. A real piss on my parade. Spray some fucker's brains out in the alley.

Just wanted to go the fuck home, man.

I leave my smoke hanging out the side of my mouth and reach back to pull out my heater.

Following the direction of the noise, I reach the fire escape and stop. My fingers unlock from my piece, leaving the gun hidden in the back of my jeans.

I have to squint against the dark to see if I'm right, but yeah, there's a chick hiding behind the steel frame stairs. She's made herself small enough to fit inside the brick around the basement window.

I step closer. She's about to fucking freak, so I stop.

There's a girl there alright, but screw me—it's the same fucking girl.

Yeah, it's Dollface, but she looks fallen this time.

Saw her outside the department store across town yesterday. Her laugh caught my attention while I was waiting for Fred's guys. If you saw this chick when she laughed, you'd think that's what she was created for. To give out happiness or some shit.

Dollface looked fucking pure.

On the flipside, without any effort, she looked like a vixen. Christ—she was more than vixen, she was possibly the hottest chick I'd ever seen.

A natural beauty—damn unique one, too. Blonde hair, blue eyes—both a shade I'd never seen before. A doll kitten. Yeah, babe was a prize. With her wavy hair tied back in a high, bouncing ponytail, she was dressed in regular clothes, needing nothing but herself to look like sex on legs. Guns 'N Roses shirt knotted at her waist, short denim skirt, and boots that made her legs look long as hell.

Yeah, she could get your dick up and harder than a rock, but there's just something about her that's clean. Dollface.

I wasn't wrong, too. Wouldn't admit shit out loud to anyone, but hearing her fire off her smart mouth was enjoyable. Not an easy lay for sure.

Shit, even her voice was hot because she has this accent that's kind of fucking impossible to place.

The two guys she was waiting for aren't around now. One brown-haired, the other with a hair color similar to hers. They were the same gene pool for sure, so her brothers, I'm guessing. Older, protective, and judging by the size, it was most likely one of their shirts she was wearing.

She looks a world different under all the dirt. She's trembling and drenched to the bone from the cold and heavy rainstorm.

I stand still. Completely at a loss for what to do—a historical fucking first for me.

"Doll."

Her eyes widen, and she looks very different from the last time I saw her. This girl looks completely lost. Like being on the brink of happily-inviting-death kind of lost.

I'm hesitant to move because if I move, she'll run—but her eyes draw me in. Deep, silently, pleading, blue.

I think she wants someone to help her. I look around, then back to her. She's definitely hiding from something. Doesn't know who to trust.

"Fuck."

I know I am going to regret this, know it bloody well, but in a move completely unlike me, I just can't walk away.

I'm the king of all things wholesomely asshole-like— walking away shouldn't be difficult for me—but it is.

"Chick—" That's not the best way, you dumbfuck, C. I shut up and opt for "Doll" instead.

I've called her that before, so hopefully, she won't fucking panic now.

"Doll." My voice is quiet, keeping calm like I'm talking to an animal instead of a chick.

I abruptly stop talking as the alley is illuminated by lightning.

All it takes is that illusive second, and—fuck my life—I can see Dollface is covered in a lot more than dirt. The chick's wearing the exact same clothes as yesterday, but there are tears all over it this time. The dark brown smears on her body and clothes are old, browned-up fucking blood. It's dotted over her face, too, and matting her hair like clay.

"Fuck." My cuss loud. Too loud. "Shit."

Now what?

"Look, I'm not gonna hurt you." I hold my hands up where she can see them and hope she won't run, because then I'll have to chase her. I can't walk away now. Man, I don't have a conscience, so I don't know why the hell I'm growing one now.

Fuck. Just fuck! I make my voice as unrecognizably soft as I can. "Just don't run."

Letting my cigarette drop so I'll look less shady than I really am, I give her a name to put with the face.

"Name's C."

Tentatively, I take a step toward her, keeping it slow enough for her to follow. Tears leak unwillingly from the corners of her eyes, and she stays frozen where she is, watching me like a hawk.

The next step makes her cower back into her hiding place, but she doesn't run away, which I take as a good sign.

I hold my hands higher in exaggerated surrender and start saying things straight out my ass. "Not going to do anything to you. Okay?"

She stays where she is, not stopping me. I walk closer and crouch slowly. She's clutching something in her hand.

Screw me! Dollface is packing heat.

She holds the piece low like she doesn't want to use it, but it's held right, telling me she sure as fuck knows how to.

Sitting on the balls of my feet, I tip my head down to look at her. Christ, this chick is running from something fierce.

She's banged up bad, real bad, and for some reason, it makes me mad. Cut-a-fucker-without-blinking mad. Blind motherfucking fury.

Her knuckles are raw, so she gave back as good as she got. Good, I think. Fucking great.

"Where are your brothers?" I ask. The sad kind of fear in my gut tells me I already know the answer to that shit when her eyes well up.

She closes them tight, hiding her blue behind her lids. It's the first time she takes her eyes off me. A strangled sob escapes her, and she shakes her head slowly.

Shit. I swallow.

So there it is. What's been lost. She's alone.

I swallow again, pushing against the dryness building in my throat because of what I know I'm about to do.

It doesn't feel half as messed up as it should when I hold out my hand.

"Come on," I murmur, watching her closely as she opens her grief-stricken eyes to look at me.

She's so distrusting and timid it's fucking tragic. I lick my lips, wondering what the hell I'm doing for the millionth time in this short meeting, and nod slowly for her to come forward.

Even shocking myself with what I say next:

"Let's go home."

She looks at me in a way I can't understand. Her wet eyes somehow seem softer, more vulnerable, than before. I don't turn away from her. I can't, and I won't, because what's even more shocking is that I meant it when I said it.

I don't know what she sees in my face, but for some reason, she takes my offered hand and quietly places the loaded gun in my other—and for whatever fucking reason, I'm okay with both.

(Present day… BPOV)

The three of us are in a great race to Cora's Café this morning. It's a great race because it's too early, too cold, and C and I find it hard to believe Em is up at all. Our Batman has a personal vendetta against daylight hours.

C woke me up at the ass-crack of dawn, so we could head down and try to score a quick celebratory breakfast with the Bears—our old high school basketball team who won yesterday's game.

I bawled and screamed for my bed to save me, but C dragged me out anyway. My bed's a coward.

We have nothing to celebrate because we're not on the team anymore, but Em and I go anyway. The sole reason being Esie; we know C's real mission is to run into her. What better way for him to do that than go to the café that's across the street from her new place? It used to be a record store, but now, she uses it for her own purposes.

It's freeze-your-tits-off cold, the weather that has normal people hiding at home. But the three musketeers? No way. We walk on.

Crap.

Most people are afraid of C. He's just tall and broody and unapproachable. They avoid looking at us. It's harder for them to do today with all the singing that's going on to our left.

We cross at the lights and have a hard time staying serious with Em's melodic drawl of melancholy. His pitiful plea to the gray depressing sky continues, even when we get to the other side.

He's not oblivious to the people staring, either. He simply couldn't give a big, small or medium-sized fuck.

The notes are perfect, though. He's magic.

"I'm at a payphone! Dying to get blown! All of my change can't buy a screw!"

C sniggers. His head is tucked down, and he's shaking it at the ground while I'm stuck in a giggle fit. Emmett and mornings really do not mix.

"God, C!" I beg him, "Give Em a raise. Please give him a raise." Christ! Emmett sounds like he needs the extra cash!

C smirks down at me and laughs under his breath.

I turn away from him to body-bump our monster's side. Em is massive, so he has the grace to pretend it's the impact that moves him.

"Dude, that's tragic." I jab him.

He grins widely down at me. "Wanted to see how the other side lives."

I stick my tongue out at him. He's hopeless, this boy. He smiles wider at me, and I grin back at him because it can't be helped. Emmett is Batman, and you can't help but love Batman.

"Manwhore," I mutter because he is.

"Prude," he responds because I am.

I flip him the bird, and he dramatically clutches at his heart. I wound him so. Fucker.

"Dence." His hands wave out theatrically. "I meant Prude-dence, Bella. Such a lovely name, that."

I make a face. "Prudence? No." Firm no. "Friend to friend, beloved Batman of mine. That isn't even a good name on a dead girl."

"Sure as fuck is," he disagrees. He wags his brows like a dog. Because a dog he is… no lie. "Think my new conquest should be a babe named Prudence."

"You're hopeless." Bouncing up, I hang from round his neck. With my free arm, I paint a pretty picture in the sky for him with a wave of my magical hand. "She'll be eighty, going to the grave. In a retirement home downtown." I'm deadpan and evil-smirking on the inside when his face sours at the mental image. "You can name her wrinkles, not her tits."

Once he recovers, he wiggles his naughty brows at me again. "They can't help themselves."

"Fuck off, Em," says C as we reach Cora's.

He opens the door, letting us both in before entering himself. We're still laughing as we walk through the café. He hovers behind us, and everyone is aware we're here now.

We slink to our table like the black cloud we apparently are.

C's got a dire rep. I think the sun shines out his ass, and that's the difference between people who know him and people who don't.

Everyone thinks C and I are together. They may be scared shitless of him, but C doesn't give attention or show interest freely. They wish it was them here in my place—they wish it hard. Never happens directly, but the girls give me the stink eye on the sly. That rhymed, didn't it? See, it makes me poetic and shit. We let them assume whatever they want.

They resent that we're seldom seen apart, and that we live together. They also hate that they know of me at all because of him. And my personal favorite: that it has lasted between us for so long. You know, the whole fairytale of it all. Idiots.

We don't care. There's no point. C's a total babe, and I'm the exception to all his rules. The more they see us together, the more they're going to hate.

It's worse when Em is with us because he's a gift. He's big, broad and tan. Basically, a pretty hunk of orgasm-inducing muscle, and he comes with an equally impressive, villainous rep. Our playboy extraordinaire is rarely seen with the same girl twice, leaving me as the only constant female in his life. They know he's not banging me, so what gives?

Nobody voices their dislike. Their fear might be subliminal, but even subconsciously, it's strong enough that they won't risk rubbing me the wrong way. Something about me makes them sense danger.

I roll my eyes. If they only knew.

We're the closest. The ride-together-die-together-Bad-Boys-for-life bullshit? Yeah, that's us. Em is our third. Technically, I'm actually their third.

Details. They were thick as thieves—pun intended—long before I was in the picture.

Em and C grew up on the same street. Even when C left, they remained in contact. It was like he'd never gone at all.

Took Em a while to get used to the idea of me infringing on their brotherhood of society's misfits, but soon enough, he figured out that I'm just one of the guys. Now, I've unintentionally become his preferred wingman.

C doesn't run with Fred's gang these days. He picked up school again, too … eventually, when he got me in, anyway. He's two years older, but we landed in the same year because he dropped out when he left his mom's house. No complaints from either of us.

Em was in and out trouble while C was AWOL, so he got in with us, too, when he could.

C's mom, Chelsea, adores me for all that. She's just happy having him close and visiting her now and again. He still won't live with her, but we don't live far—ish—far-ish? Yes. We don't live far-ish.

What's five streets and a lake between loved ones? Nothing, see.

She's cool, though, loves him more than life.

A waitress walks up, adjusting her skirt discreetly, a red telltale tinge to her cheeks as she approaches with her eyes fixed on C and Em. "Good game, Bears," she congratulates us and pulls out her pad. "What can I get you?"

Score! Free food!

Em grins at me, and I grin back. Stomach does a back flip.

"Doll?" C asks me, ignoring her drooling.

I hand her my menu with an apologetic smile as she flushes. C can be daunting.

"Waffles with berries and sugar."

She looks down gratefully and scribbles my order. Poor girl avoids looking at the table again.

Em fires up a smoke. The manager—or someone of importance, judging by the old-man suspenders—catches him from the front. After a second, he turns away like usual, pretending to be blissfully ignorant.

"Coffee." Em looks more like the Dark Knight ordering through that smokescreen. "Cheeseburger, fries, side of bacon."

She writes like she's going to be quizzed on it; it's fast and furious, her forehead sweaty. The effect C has on her is very visible. She looks at him with smiling eyes.

"Same here," is all she gets out of him. It's so disinterested, I'm not sure if she's disappointed or relieved when she walks away.

We wait in reverent silence because this is better than just food. This is free food.

I check out the window, and while watching the mist form on the stained glass, I end up seeing the outline of a dude across the street.

He's on the street corner, under a layer of blankets. Well, it looks like that's what he's covered in, but it's hard to tell through the blurriness.

I wipe the glass, hoping it will help me see better, and cup my hands against the window, but he's gone when I look out.

C checks his watch while we wait. I notice every time he does it. My smirk is barely containable when the tiny bell above the door finally rings, and his hawk-sharp eyes dart her. His wait is over. Esme has all of C's attention, and the girl doesn't even know it. I hide my grin when he looks up.

Aside from me, she's the first girl immune to his charm. C is just king. He's a mystery to the world, killer looks, and a bad reputation to boot. So beautiful and sexy, he gets ass anytime he wants it.

Got church girls blasphemously begging Jesus in their prayers for them to wake up knocked up with his kid, and Esme makes him work for it.

He doesn't like it—which is why he gives her a hard time. It pisses him off that he wants a girl for more than the sex.

Me, my babes? I'm rooting for them with figurative pom poms, magic wand and the works. I think Esme is perfect.

She's great. Got a beautiful smile, beautiful heart, beautiful wit, but best and by far, the most beautiful thing is that she's got standards.

Esme will not let herself be walked over even though she's into C. She's the one he should be with. The girl with a boatload of self respect because it means she's cut so high above the rest, she's up there in heaven.

He "dates" other chicks—acts like it anyway—but Esie? She owns him, and he owns her, too. She's just scared to trust him with something fragile—like, say, her heart.

Can't blame her, not at all. I love him, but I'll be the first to admit C's an ass. He has to prove he wants it—and til' he accomplishes that, I'm more than happy with pushing them together any and every chance I get.

I don't have to turn round to check if it's her. I know I'm right by watching C.

He watches her move to place her order at the front like she always does.

I nudge Em under the table, and he does his patented grin with his eyes because he's talented like that.

"E Donavan!"

She looks up, startled by the yell at first, and then grins back at me. The guy behind the counter looks between us, appreciative of the view he's got.

"B Swan!" she calls back, and I wave her over.

"B Swan," C mocks without reacting on the surface. His pupils narrow to piercing pinpricks. "What the fuc—What are you doing?"

"Love you, C Anthony," I sing, ignoring his ice with skill I've developed over the past four years.

He rolls his eyes at me as Esme joins us. He turns his alluring attention to her, and she colors as his eyes give her a once-over from head to toe, covering every inch ... slowly.

"Nice legs," he says, locking his eyes to hers finally. It disarms her.

"I know."

His eyes glint. "Not too cold for you to be showing it."

She looks down to her skirt then at him through her lashes. Coy and sexy. Playing my boy like only she can. My girl is a superstar.

"Bother you, C?" she asks.

C's game face won't slip, and it throws Esie off. He wins this round.

"Yeah." He leans back in his chair languidly.

Then in a real "C-monster" move, his demeanor switches up faster than humanly possible, and he yells fiercely across the room.

"It's distracting the staff from bringing out my fucking order!"

Esie jumps, not expecting it. We all turn, following C's pretty and murderous glower to the boy that was eyeing us up earlier. He's paling rapidly now, the poor guy.

I turn back, but Esie watches him haul ass to the back.

Our order shows up ahead of everyone else's. Shocking.

Esie isn't as used to it, though, so I jab C. "Hero, don't be an ass."

He grins at me in response, his eyes twinkling. "Dollface."

I shake my head and laugh inwardly as I dive into my waffles.

"Enjoying the show?" he asks Esme, who is watching her order magically appear before her eyes.

"'Sup, babe?" she says, ignoring him and twisting in her seat to face me.

"She's turning nineteen next week," C answers like a sly dog.

It's a statement with a scheming meaning that he and Em want me to catch. They are twisting my arm. He insists on a big blowout. Em and he don't require my input at all because they want a party. Both of them shoot me a wicked grin and lose it quick so I can't call them on it. Snakes.

When C gets his order, he automatically slides his coffee across the table to me. He hates coffee; how someone can hate coffee, I will never understand.

I take it, enjoying how it warms up my palms. Em and I dig in because these two will have the talking covered like they usually do. Then Em has another plan.

He wisecracks with a sardonic smile. "Planning a surprise party."

He's smooth, this fucker. I snatch up my opportunity like a dog with a bone and wait for my moment to use it. Nice, Em. He grins back at me.

Esie looks up from the table, and we lose the smiles quickly. "Good job so far." She smirks at him.

He shrugs his shoulders because he's back to just not giving a fuck. His job is done, and he keeps eating.

I kick C under the table, hard. It's to shut him up before I say what I want to say, because I know he's not going to like it when I call Esme to this blowooout too.

"You should come, Esie." I invite her with as much cheeriness I can muster while I wait for C to react.

He doesn't disappoint me either, because the moment I make the offer, C's eyes are alight with fire and glaring at me something fierce. Poor me! Bleh.

Em's mind—being Em's mind—is on a whole different planet from ours.

"We should all cum." He does the sign of the cross, his face stoic, and seals his prayer with a kiss to his finger sent up to heaven.

I make a face. Esme shares my sentiment wholeheartedly.

C and Em snigger at the garnered reactions. Grinning so wicked and pretty, they're all dirty humor. Then C gets back to his glaring contest with me.

"My birthday," I mouth to him.

He still doesn't look happy, but he drops the death stare. Thank fuck, too, because he's good with this whole looking-scary business. Way better at it than I am. I have to practice more.

I snigger in my head and grin up at her triumphantly. The corners of her lip lifts to beam rainbows and sunshine at me.

"Love to, Bell. I'll see if I'm free."

"Watching paint dry isn't a social activity, Esie," C rudely interrupts us. He smirks lazily and watches her till she's uncomfortable.

"Place is coming along just fine, thanks, Carlisle." She uses his full name to spite him.

It's something no one besides me and Em dares to do because we're exempt to that rule and any others that he has. C letting it slide when she does it is another indicator that he's serious about her.

He keeps himself aloof easily, so you have to know him like I do to know he's actually enjoying her indignation.

"If you need help, just say the word, Princess," he taunts, raising his brow. He says it like he doesn't mean it, but he does. C will drop anything for her, day or night.

Her face falls slightly, and I send him a look. He shrugs at me, and it unintentionally gives Esie enough time to recover.

She shoots him a grin. "I have help."

Her answer is as short as her departure. She's gone like the wind. C's after her in a flash, and he's mad as hell.

I crane my neck. Just look at her go. Bravo. Bravo!

Em and I split. C's on his own. The two of them will be all right, and he'll call when he figures we bailed.

"Won't they have pretty babies?" I tease dreamily, side-glancing Emmett as we push our way through the door and he has his midmorning panic.

"Don't." He looks horrified, letting the door slam behind us. It almost hits an old woman. She's tiny, like a cute, white-haired prune. I apologize profusely while she glowers at Em. It's adorable because she's so small and Em is a monster.

"Looks like my grandma," he says, looking to me with a big, reminiscent smile. "Hated that bitch."

Batman narrows his eyes at the tiny wrinkled woman, and she disappears inside the safety of the café as fast as her frail legs can take her. He's horrible, but I'm laughing so hard on the inside, its showing on the outside. I'm a terrible person.

"Poor thing." I flick his chest with my finger. "That's mean."

For him, it's like nothing transpired with poor midget Grandma Wrinkles.

"No babies." He shakes his head. "Never."

He scowls so hard when he says it. I can't help but laugh out loud as I look at him because it's shit, and he knows it. The truth is, with the way he sleeps around, he's probably going to be the sole sponsor of every single player on the court for the Bears at some point in the future.

"Fucking babies." His upper half shakes as he shivers in disgust.

I don't doubt that shiver because that's another thing C and Em have in common. They are freaked out about kids.

In Em's case, who can blame him, really? He's scared he's got a brood somewhere in the world waiting for the opportune moment to pounce on him and tame his fun, wild and free bachelor life.

C is different. His dad ran out on them before he was born, and his stepdad was a class-fucking-A cock-sucking dick of superior quality. I am clearly not a big fan, either.

I'm one of the only people C's ever told, and like that, he's one of the only people who knows the truth about me.

Em knows a part of it. How C found me and about what happened to my brothers. But I don't think C's told him the rest. He has his own suspicions, but it's not safe to tell him everything. Honestly, the fewer who know, the better.

I shrug. What the hell. "One of my grandmothers was a bitch, too," I admit. She really, really was.

Em gives me the "I'm subtly curious with concern" eye, but before he can ask anything, we are distracted.

Angela can be smelled before she's seen.

She goes through a bottle of perfume a day. The way she sprays it on makes you wonder if she smells like a garbage truck without it.

Maybe she's suffering from ablutophobia? You know, scared of showering or something, so she murders one bottle of perfume daily to survive. Poor thing; that must be hard. My forcefully rooted feet know "hard," too—when she's real close, I literally have to fight against the urge to run away to avoid suffocation.

Global warming is not loving this one, and every second I stay there, my lungs are not loving me. They scream for fresh air.

"Bella," she says with a smile as she moves past me to get to Batman.

Speaking of smell, she's capable of tracking Em down like only a bloodhound can. If he ever got lost, we'd seek her out to bring him home, and bring him home she would.

"Hey, Angela," I offer back.

The thing about Angela is that she aspires to be Em's main squeeze. She's tall, brunette, and though she's too friendly with the makeup, honestly, she's pretty. I don't mind her. I don't actually care. We're not friends, but when we run into each other, we're civil—when we bother speaking at all.

"I have this thing at my place that's not right." She pouts.

"A tragic story if I ever heard one." Distracted, Em sticks a smoke in his mouth.

I'm forced to hide my mirth by biting my lip. He's doing it to nullify the too-sweet fragrance he's being assaulted with from his "main squeeze."

"The heat's not working, and I'm cold." She curls her nails into his belt loop and tugs it good and hard toward her. On the street and in broad daylight, the purring continues. "Want to take a look for me?"

"Sounds like you need to go find yourself an HVAC tech, baby." Em one-ups her smile by licking his lips. His eyes don't match the lust he's showing; he drops the act and they narrow, vicious and bored. "I'm not your fucking go-to boy."

"Em. Just come with me," Angela demands before she stomps off in a dramatic storm.

I watch her walk away and know the annoyance is a front to fight off the rejection. She's a slut; it's the truth, but Angela's really into Em.

"What about the babies?" I ask, already knowing he's going to go.

"Didn't say I have anything against the process." He smirks.

Giggling, I swipe his smoke and stomp it out on the ground. "Go suffer, manwhore."

He laughs and disappears in her direction. I look around, knowing I have nothing to do. Dreary.

The streets are busier. People going to work, people jogging, people fighting over cabs. Yeah, it's fucking Utopia, this place.

I start walking to the alley across the street, kicking tiny stones as I drag my feet.

I make a stop at Esie's place because she's painted the door gold and stuck a board on the little tree next to it.

It politely reads: Wet paint. Touch this door and You. Will. Be. Maimed.

She attached it with an axe to the bark and a chain to prevent it from being removed. Nice touch.

I laugh hard as I run into the alley, climbing up the fire escape.

I get to the very last floor and slide open the window to my hideout. It's nothing glamorous—a simple, vacant, run-down apartment at the very back corner of the building that, for some reason, hasn't been sold in the four years I've been sneaking up here. Today, something very different happens, though.

It's completely impossible that I don't know someone's in there, but I really don't. Not until he steps out of the bathroom and I see him. I can't see his face too well with distance and lack of light, but I'm certain he's watching me, too. Shocked as well, probably because he doesn't take his eyes off me, either. He's aware of my every move; I can feel it—it sets my heart racing.

How the hell—me? I should have known he was in here!

Overwhelmed by shock, my senses kick into overdrive. Instinctively listening closer, I gather just how stealthily this guy moves. He's brilliant, silent as death.

He's not one of us—them? Which is it? Fuck it. It doesn't matter! Them or us, he's not one of either, so his unnatural stealth is even more ridiculous than me not having known he was in here!

"Who are you?" Instinctively, I'm moving backward as I talk.

It takes a lot to scare me. My whole life, I've rarely feared anything. But right now, I'm as close to it as I have ever gotten in four years.

"What are you doing here?" I ask in surprise. Now that I've had a second for it to settle in, I'm calm.

He walks away from the bathroom, and I get a better look at him. His back, anyway.

He's not the owner, that's for sure. He's dressed like a bum. I'm guessing he's older than me, but not by much. His feet are bare as he walks to the table across the room. He's got a torn shirt on, some dirty jeans, and he's covered in filth. He reaches the table, and I have a better view of his front now.

I stop moving and peer at him. He doesn't look like he's showered or slept well in a while.

There's water sprayed on his dark hair, and I hear the faint sound of water dripping in the bathroom. He must have tried to get some of the dirt off. He really looks exhausted or something.

I feel a tiny pang and look to the cold that lies beyond the window, wondering how long he's been out there.

When he lifts his head, I can fully see him for the first time. His eyes are startling. They lock me in place. He's really not happy I'm here.

"Free country." His ire can metaphorically be seen leaking out his pores.

"Not a free apartment," I retort.

I'm thrown by the sharp edge to his silky, smoke-like voice. He's a dangerous one, this one.

This must be what those girls sense when they're around me. I have the overwhelming urge to get out of here.

"Stupid way to be getting in if you own it." He sniggers at the window, his eyes cold.

What an ass. Got a point, but even an ass with a good point is still an ass.

During my inner monologue, I drop my gaze to the floor by the table. I see a jacket at his feet and a blanket.

Oh my God. It's him, the guy from the corner of the street.

Street-corner Romeo is here in my hideout, and he's got the nerve of an angry bull that's on Viagra. I'm keeping calm and talking to him after he threw me off with his sketchy presence, and he's really an ass.

Staying calm, given our current situation, is a very difficult feat. It's completely disconcerting that I didn't know he was here because I'm trained for it. Sort of … I didn't exactly complete training.

These are severely sore spots that make me want to shut my eyes and ward them off before I begin rehashing things I don't want to. I can't go down that road now because I can't afford to lose focus with this guy.

Don't take your eyes off him, Bella.

I hear my big brother's voice in my head. One of the many lessons he taught me in preparation for me to defend and protect myself. His attempt to complete my training so I could take care of myself if something were to go wrong. It's like he knew he had to do it.

See what they're seeing and figure out what they're thinking. It's all right there — you just have to find it. It's like mind reading by body reading. Watch them and what they're watching. The nerves attack before they do. It's a tell. Watch them. If they twitch, trust your instincts. Take them out.

Everything is in my blood; it doesn't require thought. I just do it. Just the brief memory of my brother's voice makes me feel safer, but thinking about any of them reminds me of how much has been lost. I miss him. I miss them both. I take a deep, calming breath.

"You're not king of this castle either, Romeo," I say, leaning against the wall.

His blue eyes lock with my blue ones, and it becomes an effort not to look away.

"How would you know, bitch?"

I sniff at the pungent odor that's slowly filling the apartment. "You reek of alcohol. What did you bathe in, vodka? That stuff will kill you."

"What's it to you?"

It hits me belatedly that this fucker called me a bitch. My eyes turn sharp with anger. "Nothing. At all," I hiss. "Changed my mind. Drink more some more—it's good for you."

He doesn't appreciate the sarcasm.

"I'm not in the fucking mood. Get out." He turns and walks around the table, where he's set up a bottle of cheap vodka—surprise—and screws the cap back on.

"Stupid fucking hobo," I mutter out loud, hoping he hears as I walk out.

I slam the window with force, releasing some of my anger on it. It helps a bit.

What a fucking ass. I don't mind letting him win, though. He needs the place more than I do. So I walk off with my slightly wounded pride before I let it drop altogether, because I really don't give a fuck. I grip the bars along the fire escape, lock my feet around the frame and slide my way to the bottom.

Five For Fighting's "Superman" plays from my phone.

I hit the ground and answer the call. "'Sup, C."

"Heading back. You with me?"

"Yeah," I answer.

He sees me jogging across the street, and we hang up.

"Ready to go?" he asks.

"Yeah," I say, thinking of something. "Just give me a second."

The anger inside me melts away as my heart warms up. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck! This is a stupid idea, but it might be worse if I don't do it. I love my conscience.

C nods, lighting a joint in daylight hours on the busy street. He smirks, knowing what I'm thinking, making me smirk in return at the deviousness. He's hopeless.

He watches me curiously as I run back into the café.

Grandma Wrinkles is still in there. She's sitting at a window that has C right outside it. She must have seen me with him because Grandma Wrinkles' last name is Judgmental. She gives me a disapproving shake of her head along with the stink eye from where she sits as she watches me walk to the front.

When it's my turn I pivot to the boy who works there. It's the same guy C scared off before. I'm proud of him; with some effort, he keeps his eyes on my face and off my rack while I place my order.

I'm actually happy he's having such a hard time keeping the drool off his chin; this will help make asking him for a small favor a little easier.

Five minutes later, I head back out and signal C with my fingers to give me a moment. He nods his okay and continues with the call he's on.

I cross the street. The guy scares the ever living shit out of me, but I go back. Balancing up the fire escape is trickier this time, but I make it up with everything intact.

When I slide the window open, he eyes me skeptically. Like I came back to shoot him, and he's annoyed by it. Fucker.

Ignoring the look, I walk in further, trying to keep the natural yet unnatural fear of him at bay the entire time.

I place the antiseptic and cotton balls I asked the guy at the café for on the table.

"That will help better with your wound."

He stares at the antiseptic, then at me. I'm not sure what he's thinking, but now I'm thinking maybe I'm the crazy one.

I'm uncertain how comfortable he'll be with me saying anything, because it's not exactly polite conversation, but I figured out what he was doing in here when I left.

The bathroom, the alcohol, the smell on him, the red around his eyes? I recognized it.

Earlier, when he walked across the room to the table, he hid it well, but he favored his right side. The redness around his eyes is from pain, not drunkenness. The vodka he had in the bathroom wasn't for drinking; that's why his clothes reeked of it. Street-corner Romeo was cleaning a wound with it. He's hurt.

"The antiseptic burns less than the vodka," I continue in an attempt to fill the very prominent silence.

It's so awkward right then, my throat goes dry, and I wonder why I'm still here.

He eyes are still on me, watching me, but this time, he's not saying anything.

I clear my throat to cover up and walk over to him so I can hand him the sandwich. I hold out the cup of coffee I got him, too. Eyeing me disbelievingly, he starts to take it. I think his hands are moving detached from his brain. Maybe he did drink some of that vodka, then?

I don't know what to make of this blank look he's got. It gives nothing away, but it's different somehow.

He holds the sandwich up at chest level where I handed it to him. He's unmoving. I hold the cup higher. His eyes never leave me. The tips of his fingers accidently brush mine when I hand him the coffee.

I let go of the cup when he's got it and want to wring my hands awkwardly while I stand there. I don't know what to say, watching him look from the sandwich to the coffee and me again.

"Figured you might be hungry," I say lamely.

He's so tall he has to tilt his head forward to watch me speak. It's very disarming now that I can clearly see the shade of shocking ice blue of his eyes.

"Yeah, so. Enjoy your day," I mumble, going from lame to lamer because I'm clearly talented at it.

Things go quiet. My throat goes dry. Neither one of us says anything.

We're stuck in this weird stare. It's so awkward, and yet neither of us looks away. A moment passes before I'm finally able to break it.

I walk away, and he watches me cross the room like he's still stuck in whatever just happened. As I slip out the window, I swear he does the most mind-numbingly wonderful thing—Street-corner Romeo smiles.

A/N: Thank you all for the response. It killed me so good. Did not see it coming. I love you. For real. All of you.

Was I long? I don't know the standard time frame for updates. Is there one?

We're adding some (coughs: many!) edits and tweaks to make things more relevant to today because I wrote this 2008 in high school which feels like dinosaur years ago. Call me a relic. Go ahead.

All my heart belongs to pre-reading cosmic siblings, SapphireEyed-ValkyriePixie and KittyTylz you, yes you bb's. Chapters are beta'd by the wonderful peeps at PTB.

Let me know what you think.

Catch ya later.

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