In keepin’ with a laid back summer, I’ll be postin’ as inspiration strikes for the comin’ months!
And inspiration has definitely struck this week LOL!
Got a couple of our favorite authors with new fics, as well as one from a newbie…well, as an author! We know Ipsita through the spectacular banners she creates as well as through Facebook if you are lucky enough to play in her sandbox LOL!
As if that isn’t enough, I found myself binge readin’ a classic from 2009…one you MUST READ if you haven’t already!
So, let’s get this party started!
One boy, one girl; one rich, one poor; one privileged, one not; one Mod, one Rocker. This story takes you back in time to England in 1964 when these two gangs managed to exist side by side, until bank holiday weekends when they fought on the beaches. Inspired by true events. Rated M for all the usual reasons.
The jeans and leather-clad youth staring back at me bears no resemblance to the young lawyer who walked through the door less than half an hour ago. Edward Cullen, the respectable employee and all-round good chap is long-gone and a totally different species of human stands in his place.
Smirking back at me is bad-boy Eddie Masen, my alter-ego. He’s a guy who likes to break the rules, who frightens old ladies just by his appearance and swagger. Who lives like he rides – fast and dangerous.
He fights, he screws, and he drinks to excess and laughs at danger, but would risk his life for his pack if it came to it. He also owns two of the fastest production motorbikes in the world and tonight he plans to hit the ton on one of them.
I wink at Eddie Masen and throw the keys in the air and before they land in my hand, I make the easy decision that it’s Sexy Sadie who’ll have my legs wrapped around her engine tonight. This is my life now and until I return home on Sunday evening, or should I say ‘if’ I return home on Sunday evening. . .
I’m Eddie Masen, and I’m a Rocker!
* * * *
I sit in front of the mirror and stare at my reflection before starting my make-up routine. Alice has been very patient with me showing me how to apply eyeliner and shadow to enhance my ‘liquid eyes’, which is how she describes them. She’s still trying to get me to cut my hair as the fashion is for either a short pixie style or a shoulder length bob, but I’ve resisted so far. My ‘waist-length when wet’ curly brown hair is the one thing that makes me different from the girls that go to The Roxy and I’m determined to keep every inch of it.
All the other girls have caved and got one of the two styles that are considered to be ‘the thing’ for ‘Mods’, which is allegedly what we aspire to be. I’m okay with everything else ‘Mod’, like the clothes, the make-up, the music and the culture, but no-one is getting anywhere near my hair with a pair of scissors any time soon. That’s why I’ve always considered myself to be on the fringes of this fad and have never felt as though I belong in their ranks.
I do my best with the eyeliner and mascara but forego the shadow as I always make a mess of it. I apply the smallest amount of lipstick and smack my lips together to try and spread it around, then give myself a quick spray of L’aimant before slipping my shoes on and heading downstairs.
“I’m going out now,” I call as I pull on my imitation leather coat.
“Don’t be late,” my dad responds as usual.
“No dad,” I answer condescendingly in a sing-song voice and put my hand on the door knob.
Joan promises this fic is already complete at 36 chapters, plus the epilogue, and she’s postin’ twice a week so there’s no excuse for you WIP wussies not to jump on board!
C’mon, you know you want to…it’s fun!
Summary: Antique or Ikea, Beautiful inside or out, maim or kill, he had decisions to make today that would change his life.
Alison has expanded her We Love Mobward Contest entry *woot woot!*
Edward and Emmett interrupt Bella in her preparations to show a million dollar penthouse apartment and she’s not a happy camper!
“Okay, enough is enough.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “I want you out of here now please before I call the cops.” I walked towards the door and opened it hoping they would just casually walk out.
“I don’t think so Miss. In fact,” said green eyes, “it looks as though our Mr Hunter or your Mr Jones has just arrived.” A tall blond haired guy came into view on the monitor.
“Ahh he’s got a ponytail,” I moaned, unable to stop flipping into sales mode. “I hate guys who have ponytails, they always expect to get money knocked off because they think they are so gorgeous.” I stared at the screen until he walked into the elevator.
“Please Miss Swan,” said green eyes, and I thought that I could detect just a hint of desperation in his voice. “Just go into the other room until we have finished having our little chat with him, then we will leave you in peace.”
“No,” I retorted, childishly. “This is my sale I’m not going anywhere.”
I stood my ground until I saw green eyes nod at the man mountain. For someone so big he moved surprisingly quickly and before I knew it I was over his shoulder and being bundled unceremoniously onto the floor of the closet in the master bedroom. He slammed the door and turned the key on the outside, leaving me angry and in complete darkness.
“Is she safely locked away? I asked Emmett as he strode back into the room. He nodded.
“Feisty one,” he smirked. “I thought I was going to have to gag her.”
“You didn’t though, did you?” For some reason it was important to me that Miss Swan was okay.
“No,” he reassured me. “I left her locked in the closet, she’ll be fine in there.”
Emmett looked at me strangely but before I could say anything else the elevator doors pinged, the signal that James was about to walk into the apartment. Emmett stood behind the door and off to one side. James knocked on the door and pushed it open, shouting hello as he peered in. Before he even saw me Emmett felled him with a single blow to the back of his head. Paul and Demetri walked in after him and the three of them carried James’s body out to load him into the SUV.
I looked around the apartment to make sure everything was as we found it. Both Emmet and I knew better than to touch anything so all I had to do was wipe a few door knobs just to be sure. I walked into the main bedroom and wiped off the closet door. I couldn’t hear anything so Isabella must have been sitting quietly waiting for us to finish. I made sure the key was in the right position so she’d be able to push it out. I knew from the shape of her jacket pocket she had a ring of master keys on her. I quietly closed the bedroom door and made my way back to island in the kitchen, I really wanted to open the champagne and the chocolates and just sit and watch the world go by for an hour or so, but I had things to do, traitors to torture and kill, wives to divorce. I smiled at the bright, inexpensive vase placed next to the worn hamper and wondered what Tanya would think about it. I shook the thought away and made my way to the main door, dropping the lock so no one else could get in.
Once we were back in the car I called Whitlock.
“Yes?” He replied. I wish everyone listened to me as intently as he did.
“The divorce papers we have ready?” He murmured that he understood what I was referring to. “Serve them today and make sure she is out of the house before I get home. I have proof that she was unfaithful so the pre-nup is null and void.”
“Are you sure?” he cautioned. “It might be legal but her family still has influence.”
“I’m sure,” I told him. “Give her the car and $100K in cash from my safety deposit box. That should keep her in the style to which she has become accustomed for a while. Cancel all her cards and change the alarm codes on the house.” Whitlock and I had already talked about this several times in the last few years so I knew he had everything ready to go.
“The second thing I want you to do is find out everything you can about a Miss Isabelle Swan, she runs a company called Swan Home Finders.”
“Everything?” he asked.
“Everything.” I confirmed.
“Can I ask why?”
“Isabelle Swan will be the next Mrs Cullen, that’s why.”
So far, Alison has managed to pull off equal parts gory violence and hilarious repartee LMAO!
Sometimes, even a wrong step can ultimately lead you to the right path. Will a couple of mistaken digits be that step for them? — A simple tale of common people and their ordinary lives.
The phone rings for a few times and then someone picks up.
“Hello,” a deep voice greets.
“Hi! I’m looking for Mike Newton?” Bella replies in an unsure voice.
Something about the deep, throaty voice on the other end makes her nervous.
“Are you asking for him or asking if it’s him?”
“Um. . . both, I guess.”
“You guess! Well, I don’t have the time or wish to play Guess Who with you, Miss. How did you get my number by the way? Or was that a random guess too?” the man on the other side barks.
Gathering every ounce of her almost non-existent patience, Bella tries to answer the rude man politely.
“Look, I am sorry, but I need to find Mike Newton. He needs to fix the shit he pulled last night and return my stuff. I can’t find his phone number. Well, I have part of it, but not the whole thing. I mean, the freaking coaster got wet and the ink was wiped out, so I’m trying blindly here, and I really, really need to find Mike. Also, you don’t need to be rude because I don’t have the leftover cents to put up with one more asshole! So. . . ”
Bella suddenly realizes that her angry rambling is not making any sense. A little mortified, she stops at the same time the person on the other side of the phone speaks.
“Wait! What coaster? What are you talking about?”
Taking a few deep breaths Bella starts again. “See, Mr. . . ”
“Cullen. It’s Edward Cullen. And who am I talking to?” He sounds impatient.
Against her better judgment, Bella starts again, a little slowly this time.
“Mr. Cullen, hello! I’m Isabella Swan, and I’m looking for a man called Mike Newton. All I have his phone number without the last two digits. The bar coaster he wrote it on, gets wet frequently with condensation from the glasses, so I’m trying out my best guesses here. You do understand the situation must be serious for me to act like a desperate telemarketing agent, right? I’m sorry I wasted your time, though.”
“Which bar?” Edward Cullen asks with a strange calmness in his voice that wasn’t there moments ago.
“I’m sorry?” Bella returns, confused.
“You said you have the number written on a bar coaster. Which bar we are talking about here?”
“It’s Bronko’s Pub.”
“Bronko’s. Hmmm.. . and you are Isabella?” he enquires.
“Ah, yes. Do you know anything about this Mike Newton I’m looking for? By any chance?” She is grasping at non-existent straws now.
“Nothing more than the fact that his phone number matches 80% to mine, and I’m the one with the 69.” He chuckles.
Edward Cullen’s tone suddenly becomes a little playful. Instead of feeling wary about this strange man, Bella finds herself smiling. A pregnant pause follows the moment, then he clears his throat, and she comes out of the light bubble of the last few seconds.
“All right then, Mr. Cullen. I’m sorry again for this intrusion. Because you are certainly not the person I need. Have a good day, sir,” she says, the corner of her mouth still a little stretched.
“Well, I may not be the person you need, Isabella Swan, but don’t waste your time chasing a lost game.” With that, he abruptly hangs up.
Puttin’ yourself out there for the first time is scary as hell but I don’t think Ipsita has anything to worry about…you’re gonna love it!
New Moon from Carlisle’s and Edward’s POV: After the Cullens leave Bella and move to Ithaca, NY, Carlisle fights to keep his family together as Edward’s pain threatens to tear them apart. Canon.
Rated: Fiction T – English – Drama – Carlisle – Chapters: 19 – Words: 121,988 – Reviews: 2,395 – Favs: 1,987 – Follows: 750 – Updated: Dec 8, 2009 – Published: Apr 13, 2009 – Status: Complete – id: 4988866
New Moon never touched on how much Edward’s family suffered along with him durin’ the months he was separated from Bella, especially Carlisle! This scene alone, which guts me every time, make Ithaca is Gorges a Classic, with a capital C!
Our son, this beautiful young man we both loved—he was wasting away before us, and Esme had no break from his pain.
“How is he?” I murmured, not releasing my grasp.
Esme shook her head sadly and I felt my body tense.
“He’s gotten worse,” she said. I must have looked surprised at her volume, because she shrugged and added, “He knows exactly how we’re feeling—there’s no reason to speak quietly.” I caught her meaning immediately—he knew how we were feeling and yet did nothing. It was wholly unlike Edward not to try to placate us with at least some semblance of normal behavior.
“What do you mean by worse?”
She gestured to the stairs. “He’s in his room. Go see.”
I entered Edward’s unlit bedroom. A human would have had trouble making out his shape on the couch, dressed as he was in a black hooded sweatshirt and dark jeans. The hood of the sweatshirt was pulled up over his hair, and he lay on his side in the fetal position with his hands jammed into the front pocket of his sweatshirt. He wasn’t breathing; his eyes did not move. He was behaving, for all intents and purposes, like the dead man he believed himself to be.
Esme was right. This was worse.
“Edward,” I called softly, but he made no acknowledgement of my presence. “Edward. Edward, son, please.” With each word I took a step toward him, landing finally on my knees before him. He did not look at me—his pitch-black eyes stared blankly forward, unfocused.
I choked on my incoming breath, and reached forward to him.
Gently, I pushed the hood down from his head, expecting him to grumble and replace it. He did nothing. I ran a hand through his thick hair—again, nothing. As far as I could tell, he hadn’t moved at all. I continued stroking his hair, feeling each strand race its way through my fingers.
My relationship with my son did not very often manifest itself physically, and when it did, it was usually in the form of a pat on the back or a hand on his shoulder. Even embraces were rare—with his gift, much love was expressed between us without anything overt on either of our parts. But seeing Edward lie there, his face frozen, his body unmoving—I couldn’t bear it. And so, before I even really knew what I was doing, I did something I’d not done since that night in Chicago so long ago: I picked him up.
Hooking one arm under his knees and the other under his shoulders, I lifted Edward to my chest. We were the same height, and I could gauge he was just shy of my weight. Yet he might as well have been an infant, so natural it felt for me to be cradling him. I sat out of habit, and Edward sank into my chest, shifting his position so that his head lay on my shoulder. The action brought back that moment, eighty-seven years ago, when I last had held in my arms this young man who would become my beloved son. He had been so light in my arms as we raced together over the rooftops, I would barely have registered his presence if it hadn’t been for the unnatural heat of his raging fever as he lay against me.
I had no idea how much he was allowing himself to perceive, but I filled my thoughts with my happiest memories of my years with him just in case. Private conversations, hunting together, sitting beside him on the piano bench while he composed, him at my side as I bound myself to Esme in marriage. The unmitigated joy I’d felt receiving Alice’s revelation, shortly after Edward had returned from Denali, that he had found his mate.
Paternal love was a strange animal. Romantic love was simple, or at least it was for a vampire. One moment I had looked at Esme and found that my entire being was flushed with an undying and immutable love. Eighty-four years later, it was still like that every time I laid eyes on her, even if I’d looked away for only a fraction of a second. My love for Edward was completely different, intermingled with a whole host of feelings: regret, pride, worry, admiration, fear.
Esme was no more capable of hurting me than I was her. But Edward—it was possible for him to stalk out the door carrying the chunk of my heart he’d claimed as his. He’d done that to me once before. Now he’d done it to Bella.
My arms began to vibrate and I realized that Edward, hearing my thoughts, had begun to growl quietly. I shifted thoughts back to him, running my hand once more through his hair. Well, that was good; at least I was generating some semblance of a response from him.
“I’m sorry, son,” I whispered. “Just because I disagree doesn’t mean I don’t support you wholeheartedly. I will try to think about something else.”
A scent from the doorway caught my attention, and I looked up.
“I heard him growling,” she explained in a whisper.
Ah. It was no wonder she looked anxious. Esme lived in a constant and misplaced fear that at some point her family members might literally tear each other apart. Whenever Emmett and Jasper got going in a wrestling match, she would inevitably put a stop to it out of her concern for their personal safety. I found her worry endearing; our sons largely found it annoying.
“We’re fine,” I answered her, pulling Edward a little closer. “He’s okay.” He may not be pleased that I didn’t agree with his course of action, but he certainly wasn’t going to attack. I wasn’t entirely sure he could attack in this state. That was something I would have to think about. Edward hadn’t hunted in several weeks, and now it seemed it might prove difficult to get him to perform the actions necessary to feed himself. Perhaps I could kill for him, and then let him drink—we would have to see.
Esme nodded, appraising Edward’s utter lack of movement. She then mouthed to me, We need to talk. Her golden eyes were sad. In the time it took me to nod and shift my gaze back to Edward, she was back downstairs.
I stood again, keeping our son in my arms, and crossed the hallway to my own bedroom. Esme always insisted on dressing our bed in the most luxurious linens she could lay hands on that were in keeping with the character of the house. I never failed to indulge her, although frankly it made no difference to either of us—we could just as soon be intimate on a bed of nails.
Today, though, I was thankful for the softness as I pulled back the down comforter and laid Edward between the silken sheets. He gave me a brief surprised look, and I smiled. At least there was a little acknowledgement. I pulled the covers up to his shoulders and replaced the hood of his sweatshirt on his head. “I’m going downstairs for a bit,” I whispered to him, “but I will be back to check on you.” I briefly rubbed his back and he grumbled something that sounded like overprotective.
I smiled. If he was all the way back to criticizing me, things were looking up. “Yes,” I replied coolly. “Like father, like son.”
Happy Saturday, y’all!