Hi, everyone! So I didn't respond to all reviews this time around but I wanted to go ahead and get this next chapter out! Also, I found the perfect Edward song. Monotonia by The Growlers. If this E was a song, he'd be this.


42. Driving in Cars with Boys

The path of violence is visible throughout the house: the puddle of beer in the kitchen and an upturned cup, the picture frames hanging crookedly on the walls in the hallway; the broken footrest of the recliner. And on the floor, Emmett, bleeding and drunk.

"Jesus," Edward says.

The crowd has already dispersed, the fight a welcome event until it was over and everyone realized just how sloppy they were. Only a few stragglers remain, nursing the last of the beer.

"You alive?" Edward nudges Emmett with his shoe.

Emmett responds with a mumbled groan, swatting blindly at Edward's foot.

"Help me get him up." Edward says this to Jasper, who is sitting on the couch with his ball cap pulled low over his eyes. I don't have to see his face to sense his disgust.

The boys wrestle Emmett into a halfway standing position. He shuffles his feet like he's trying to help but goes limp, a lost cause.

"He better buy me a new chair," Alice says, arms across her chest—no mercy in her dilated eyes.

"Marcus will."

Jasper's sentence is barely audible, mumbled, but makes Alice flinch as if he shouted.


Edward and Jasper get Emmett into his Jeep. Jasper says he's staying with Alice, doesn't need a ride back, and then Edward disappears back into the house to find Seth, our only other passenger.

Since Emmett is passed out cold in the passenger seat of his car, Jasper and I have nothing to do but try to pretend the other doesn't exist.

He smokes, and I glance at Alice's front door, willing Edward to reappear.

"You should just leave him alone, you know."

I knew it was coming. I've already steeled myself against the words.

"And you should leave Alice alone. You know that's gonna be nothing but trouble," I say quietly. "I guess we're both stupid."

Jasper sucks air through his teeth and finally glances over at me, a stream of smoke hazing his features.

"Alice has had enough heartbreak in her life," I add.

"I'm not plannin' on breakin' her heart."

"You might not be planning to, but you will."

"You don't know me," he says.

"You don't know me, either," I remind him.

"That's kind of the problem, isn't it?"

"You don't have to know me. You don't have to trust me. We're nothing to each other."

He exhales to clear the smoke around his face. In the glow of the street lamp, his eyes reflect like a cat's. "That's not true. Edward's my friend. And you're his girl."

"I'm not—"

"As far as I can tell, you haven't bullshitted me yet. Don't start now."

We stare at each other for a moment, at an impasse.

Then Emmett groans suddenly, distracting both of us. "I'm gonna be sick."

"Then be sick," Jasper replies heartlessly, flicking ash from his cigarette. "It's your car. You'll be the one cleaning it."

Even in his drunken state, he seems to think better of puking in his own vehicle and swallows it back.

I hear Alice's front door swing open, and a moment later, Edward's returned—without Seth.

I arch a brow, and he just grins.

"The brunette?" I ask.

"Yeah. I'm proud of the little fucker."

I roll my eyes.

"Well, you two have a good evening." Jasper drops his cigarette, stomps out the spark with his boot. He starts back towards the house, towards his own bad decision, leaving me with mine. "Be safe."


The backseats are out in Emmett's Jeep, so I sit on the floor amongst fishing poles and forgotten shoes, poking my head between the front seats.

We drive with the windows down and the radio on as loud as we want because the roads are empty this time of night, right before dawn.

Emmett has his head hanging outside, groaning occasionally, as Edward educates me on rap.

"This is Coolio," he tells me when the song changes.

"That's his rapper name?"

"No, it's his God-given one. I think his parents were incredibly bold for the time, don't you?"

"You're making his name up."

"No, I'm not!" Edward laughs, one wrist on the steering wheel, the other hand resting on the gear shift. "How have you not heard of Coolio? Gangsta's Paradise? Anything?"

"No."

"So you've never seen any movies, and you don't know anything about music. You were raised in a cult, weren't you?"

"I know some music," I defend. "I know The Doors. I know Bob Dylan."

"Still supporting my cult theory."

"And where were you raised?" I drawl softly, tracing patterns in the cracked leather of Edward's seat.

"Wanna venture a guess?"

"A gated community with a two-car garage."

Edward's laugh would be carefree if it hadn't taken him so long to get to it. "You're pretty good. It wasn't a gated community, though—just a two story in the heartland of suburbia. Still close, though."

I shrug. "Most white boys who listen to rap are wanna-be hustlers who own a lot of loafers."

"I'll have you know I've only ever owned one pair of loafers in my life."

I rest my chin on his seat, so close I can smell sweet smoke and the hint of Old Spice. "What was it like?" I ask, even though I shouldn't.

"The loafers?"

It's my chance to take it back, but I have to know. So I say, "What was it like to live in suburbia?"

He watches the road carefully, even though there's no traffic, nothing but cracked and dry land spreading formlessly all around us. "I don't know. It always felt kind of stupid to me."

It doesn't sound stupid to me. It sounds safe and easy. It sounds like a life of worries such as where to vacation next or how to rearrange the living room. It sounds like a million miles away from anything I've ever known.

I stare at Edward, try to imagine him in a polo and those loafers. Playing with a shaggy dog on a green lawn. Slinging a backpack off his shoulders after school and hugging his mom hello.

The images are false, though, maybe something out of a movie I saw once. I can't imagine Edward living that kind of life any easier than I can imagine myself living it.

"I bet you were an angsty teen," I say, and it's supposed to be light, teasing. But it comes out with an edge sharp enough to cut.

Edward tries to laugh. "Oh, yeah. Loaded up on angst."

How did it happen, I wonder? How did he go from the two story in suburbia to our faded motel? Was it at a party where he first got high? Surrounded by classmates, all trying to escape the oppression of their two-car garage lives?

There was safety, being around his friends, but danger in the drugs he could snort or smoke. The promise of something more.

When did he realize he couldn't stop? When did his parents notice he'd lost weight, lost interest? Maybe he played a sport before—baseball or soccer, I could see him playing those—and then, suddenly, he didn't. When did his parents look at him and see a stranger looking back?

I don't dare ask any more.

His silence seems grateful.

Then Emmett groans again, his hand flashing out, grabbing Edward's leg so hard his knuckles turn white. "Dude, fucking pull over! I'm gonna puke."


Again, sorry for not getting to all reviews! I suck!

Also a guest said something about the geography not being quite right. I apologize for that. I've never once been to Nevada or even past Missouri. SO. Forgive that mistake. Let's just pretend they're about two hours away from Vegas.

Happy Holidays, everyone!

oxoxox