Click & Strum by Bratty-Vamp.pdf

Click & Strum by Bratty-Vamp

http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6476738/1/

Summary: Isabella was anxious to start a new life, in a new location. And she

was eager to put a few more question marks in her rigid day-planner. But the guy

down the hall might have presented a larger deviation from her organized life

than she bargained for.

-EPOV-

I tried to keep my facial features relaxed, and counted the seconds between

breaths so that I would appear to be in deep sleep. I felt her pointy fingernails

drag down my side, and heard her whisper my name. I just mumbled

unintelligibly and turned to press my face into my pillow. The bed gave as she

stood.

I kept my eyes closed while she used my bathroom, and wondered briefly if I

even had a clean towel for Sharon to use. Or was it Sheila? Shannon? Eh. No

matter. She called my name once more, softly, when she came back into the

room. I didn't budge. I had gotten good at playing dead. I heard the staccato

rhythm of her heels on my hard wood floors. God I loved that sound. It was the

sound of my freedom. And then I heard the door to my loft open and close again

behind her.

Finally I allowed myself to roll over onto my back, and waited for a twinge of guilt

or something to make itself known. I mean, I should have at least felt somewhat

ashamed for sending the girl away without so much as a "Thanks, er… you."

She'd let me put my cock just about anywhere I felt like sticking it. That should

have been worth a pat on the head or cab fare or something.

I put one hand behind my head and blinked up at the ceiling. I ran my other hand

up over my face, pushed back my hair, and eventually used it to scratch my

stomach. God, I felt like shit. If the pounding in my head was any indication, I

was in for one hell of a hangover. I squeezed my eyes shut and groaned, rolling

to press my face into the pillow next to me. But the next second I realized my

mistake. It still stunk of perfume. I heaved it away from me and watched with

satisfaction as it hit my closet door.

I tried to relax to actually go to sleep, but the smell lingered. I realized then that

I couldn't roll away from it. It was all over me. I smelled horrible. Like sweat, and

that horrid perfume, and cigarettes, stale beer, and sex. My stomach rolled and I

wondered briefly if it was from the excess alcohol I had drunk, or from my own

stench. Nothing would have done now, except to scrub it off. So I peeled back the

sheets and took my naked and smelly self to a hot shower.

Damn it. I didn't have any clean towels.

I did feel marginally better after removing what felt like three layers of skin. But I

couldn't bring myself to go back into my bedroom. I'd have to do the laundry

sometime today. The couch would be comfortable enough to sleep away the

remainder of the blue-black morning. But first, I wanted a cigarette.

I grabbed my pack from the side table near my door and headed outside. I hated

to smoke in my loft, and tried to avoid it whenever possible. And I liked the quiet

pre-dawn morning hours outdoors. The world was still asleep and peaceful, and it

was nice to just sit and think. Though this morning I would have no reprieve. I

had barely lowered myself to sit on the steps before the door behind me opened.

The building that housed my loft was a beautifully restructured Pentecostal

church. From the street, anyone could mistake it for a house of God. But those

fortunate enough to live in any of its extravagant lofts simply knew it as "The

Abbey." I remember when I found the place, I considered how funny it would be

to lure women home with the promise of heaven. My loft and one other shared a

long hallway that led to stairs and street access at the rear of the building. Those

stairs happened to be my interrupted resting place now.

"Excuse me, buddy," a male voice spoke clearly. I moved to the side and glanced

up over my shoulder to see my neighbor kissing her date goodbye. Ugh. There

was one difference between men and women. Women would at least be gracious

enough to give you a goodbye kiss before they shoved your ass out the door.

Men like me couldn't even be bothered to remember your name. I snickered

under my breath to realize that her evening's entertainment hadn't made it long

enough to see the light of day, either.

"Edward? What are you doing out here?" Rosalie pulled her robe closer around

her body as her attention turned from the man that had just walked around the

corner to presumably find his car. I held up the lit end of my cigarette as an

answer. She just sighed and sat beside me. Without a word, I handed her my

cigarette. She took a long pull before giving it back to me.

Rosalie was a pretty cool chick. She moved in a couple months ago and hadn't

been too troublesome. She was pretty. Maybe a couple of years older than me.

Nice boobs.

"Remind me why we haven't had sex yet?" She smiled. I knew she was messing

with me.

"Because you'd fall in love with me, and I'd never get rid of you," I joked back.

"Ah! That's right!" She leaned over far enough to hit me with her elbow. "I'm

going back to bed," she said while standing. "I told you that my little sister will be

here tomorrow. Er… today. Right?"

"Oh that's right. What time does Little Sister arrive?" I didn't really care. She had

mentioned in passing that her sister would be living with her.

"Sometime in the morning. But remember what I told you. She's off limits. She's

way too good for the likes of you."

"Got it," I replied smoothly and tossed my cigarette over the railing. I stood to

follow her into the building, to try to catch a couple more hours of sleep.

-BPOV-

I stared through my windshield at the rusty bumper in front of me, and bit the

side of my thumb anxiously. It was a bad habit. But there was little else to do to

occupy my attention. I adjusted my rear-view mirror so that I could see my own

tired reflection, and pushed my dark, side-swept bangs out of my face. Then as I

set the mirror back to its original position, my gaze took in the boxes and baskets

of clothes that filled my back seat. I knew that my trunk was filled as well. Even

though I had been stuck in construction traffic and hadn't moved my car an inch

in the last twenty minutes, the thought made me smile. I had finally done it. I

had moved out of my parent's house in Forks, Washington, and was well on my

way to living my new life in St. Louis.

I grew up, raised by a single father. He and my mother divorced when I was a

baby. She didn't want to spend her life trapped in the little town, where my father

was the Chief of Police. And we got along okay, just the two of us, until I was

twelve years old. That was when my father was called to the aid of a single

mother who lived across town that was convinced someone was trying to break

into her house.

Dad chased the raccoons away from her garbage cans, and three weeks before

my thirteenth birthday, Claire Hale became Mrs. Charlie Swan. Just like that…

with a couple signatures down at the courthouse and sweetly shared 'I do's', I

had a new mother and step-sister. Not that Charlie was forced to offer his

sometimes over-bearing parenting skills to another child. Claire's daughter had

already graduated from high school and had moved on to college by the time the

households were combined.

Rosalie was six years older than me, which pretty much guaranteed that I was

completely off her radar. Oh- I knew who she was. She was one of those girls in

town that those of us in junior high spoke about with whispered voices, hushed in

awe. And she had left quite a legacy behind. She was tall and blonde with big

blue eyes. Homecoming Queen and cheerleader. She dated like it was a sport.

Rosalie was a social butterfly. She went to school in California, where, I'm sure,

she fit right in.

I, on the other hand, had always been somewhat invisible. A tom-boy… thin, and

quiet, with brown eyes that were usually hidden behind the glasses I wore.

Valedictorian and voted Most Dependable. I spent my weekends with my nose

buried in books. The only extra-curricular activity I enjoyed was the gymnastics

classes that I took for half of my life, trying to rid myself of the near crippling

clumsiness I had as a child. If Rosalie was the princess—I was the nerd. We

couldn't have been more unalike. And even though we were related by marriage,

I'd hardly even have called us more than acquaintances before about a year and

a half ago.

It was Christmas, and Rosalie flew in for a vacation. Maybe in was the yuletide

spirit. Maybe it was all the extra rum we snuck into our eggnog. I think that

maybe, it was because at that time of her life, Rosalie just really needed a friend.

She was going through a pretty hard time. While living in L.A, Rosalie had met

and instantly fallen in love with a very wealthy business man named Royce King.

Unfortunately, he spent more time in his Tokyo office than he did at home.

Rosalie had just finalized her divorce before her trip back home. Suddenly our

age difference and polar-opposite personalities didn't create such a huge wall

between us. We bonded, or something. Rosalie and I parted ways tearfully after

the New Year, and made a point to stay in touch via emails and phone calls from

that point forward.

Wanting a drastic change from her married life in L.A, Rosalie's first celebratory

purchase made with part of her sizable divorce settlement was a large loft in St.

Louis, Missouri. Because she and I had only started to get to know one another, it

shocked the hell out of everyone when she asked me if I wanted to move in with

her. And it stunned absolutely everyone, when I eagerly agreed. I would have my

own room, and freedom to start graduate school in a new city. The opportunity

was everything I didn't even know I wanted. I couldn't explain why I jumped so

fast at the offer. But I think it had something to do with my day planner.

I glanced over at the small spiral-bound book that lay on my passenger side seat.

I wrote absolutely everything down in that journal. It was like documentation of

my boring lifestyle. There were no surprises. And that scared me. I knew that if I

didn't start letting myself live a little, my next twenty-years would be

documented in similar books in just the same rigid and strict manner.

I picked up the book now, and flipped to today's page.

10:00 Arrive at Rosalie's.

I pulled out my favorite mechanical pencil. Click-Click-Click. The sound was

comforting. It was the sound of my organized life. The traffic was obviously not

going to allow me to get to Rosalie's by ten. So I uncharacteristically scratched a

line through that entry and used my pencil to draw a large question mark across

the whole page. I liked it. That question mark represented a whole new set of

unknowns. It felt freeing. I'd been telling myself for a while, that I would learn to

relax a little more. To take things a little less seriously. To play things by ear. The

question mark was a good start.

And then because I was so inspired, I pressed the button to lower my window

and tossed the entire day planner to the side of the road. I felt a very genuine

smile pull across my face as I put my hands back on the steering wheel. But

then… almost as quickly, I felt a panic start to set in. I bit my lip and looked into

my rear view mirror. And then as fast as I could, I popped my seat belt button

and jumped from the car to retrieve my book. Of course, that would be the

moment that traffic would decide to progress. The car behind mine honked loudly

while I rushed to get back behind the wheel and throw my car into drive. Maybe I

would just start with more question marks. Besides, I really did love my pencil.

Welcome to my new life.

-EPOV-

I leaned back in the plush leather chair and kicked my legs out in front of me. My

jeans were dirty and my boot laces drug the floor. I slept in my t-shirt and I'm

sure it was obvious. I hated these meetings. Jason Jenks sat across his large

cherry-finished desk with his chin on his fingers studying me. So I pressed a

cigarette between my lips and lit it, just to piss him off.

"You know you can't smoke in here, Anthony."

"It's Edward," I reminded him. "And you know I don't give a shit." I took a deep

drag and licked at my bottom lip before shooting him an impolite smile. I couldn't

stand this smarmy bastard. Every three months I had to meet with this lawyer so

he could fill in a report for my uncle. And then, he would hand over my check.

My full trust fund wouldn't go in effect until my thirtieth birthday. Until then,

quarterly allotments kept me far more financially comfortable than even the

lawyer who now frowned at me over his desk. I'm sure he resented me for it- as

much as I resented the questions he needed to ask for his report. It was my

uncle's way of keeping tabs on me. In the two years, it was his only means. It

wasn't as if I had made a point of staying in touch with anyone from home.

"Still at the same address?" Jenks asked.

"Yes." I took another drag from my cigarette.

"Same job?" I worked a semi-steady gig playing for a friend's band.

"Yep."

"Drugs?"

"Is that a question or an invitation?" I raised an eyebrow to be cocky.

"You know what I mean!" Jenks sounded exasperated. "Have you done drugs?"

"Want a piss test?" I sent a pointed look at the coffee mug that sat between us

on his desk. He frowned and pulled it closer, which made me crack a smile. I

could imagine the look on his face if I were to actually stand up in his stuffy office

and whip it out to piss in his mug. The thought amused me for a moment.

"A test won't be necessary, Anthony."

"It's Edward," I corrected him again.

It wasn't that I disliked the name Anthony, but no one outside of my family used

it. My given name was Edward Anthony. I was named after my father. But all of

my life, my family called me by my middle name to differentiate between me,

and the man I was named after. Even after I moved from London to live with

aunt and her family at the age of ten, they still used it.

Edward Anthony Masen.

I usually left off my last name entirely, to avoid the hassle that came attached to

having a famous parent. My father was the lead singer and guitarist for The

Trips—a rock band with such huge success in the sixties and seventies that I

practically cut my teeth on gold records. It wasn't unusual to find members of the

Rolling Stones hanging out at our London home on the weekends. And even

though I'd lost both my parents in a single-jet airplane crash that took out the

entire band when I was still a child, or maybe even more so because of it, people

still recognized my name.

No. I didn't mind my name. I just wanted my own identity here in this new life

that I was forging for myself.

"Can you just answer the question please?"

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