A/N: Hope you like him.

Edward Cullen ~ Dick for Hire

Offering Professional Private Investigative Services

Including but not limited to

Lost items * Crime Investigation * Missing People

(Cheating Spouses and Stalkers negotiable)

Prologue ~ Not quite the beginning, but a good place to start

CULLEN POV

Fuck my life, I thought to myself as I opened the door and took in the sight in front of me.

"Just give me the fucking money!" The punk was yelling, hysterically almost. Sweat was beading up on his pre-pubescent forehead. He was small, wearing jeans that hung down passed his ass, a white v-neck t-shirt that was way too fucking big for him, and a dark blue bandanna was tied around his head. His two-hundred dollar tennis shoes were untied.

Probably another new member to some lame motherfucking street gang from DC, proving his worth.

He was holding a gun up to the owner of my favorite Chinese takeout place just downstairs from my apartment that over looked the Severn River in Annapolis, Maryland.

Not cool dammit.

I looked at my watch. Late again. Sorry Alice.

The little Asian man behind the counter was screaming incoherently in Chinese, holding his hands up in surrender to the kid with the gun, shaking uncontrollably.

The cook in the back was cowering behind his stove, looking up every so often to see if the gunman was gone or not.

This was not good. I let my head fall back as I stood there with my hand still on the door handle so that I was looking up at the ceiling and let out a long sigh.

Stay…or go?…stay…go?

Screw it.

Just another fucking day in the city.

Right?

I walked in as the kid was taking a breather. He was definitely a newbie. Shaking hands, very jumpy, nervous blinking. Typical Amateur.

I scowled at him. "Why don't you move along kid, there's nothing here worth killing anyone over," I urged, hoping he'd listen to some fucking reasoning.

"You shut the fuck up!" He yelled, suddenly pointing his gun at me.

And that's just not fucking acceptable.

A grimace formed across my mouth. I was annoyed as hell.

I threw my hand across my body and palm fisted his wrist, probably breaking it and forcing the gun he was holding out of his hand and to the ground. Then I pulled my elbow back up to meet his face and he went down like a rock, blood splattering the wall behind him from a busted nose as he fell.

"No. you shut up," I answered in the best Al Pacino voice I could muster, pointing at his unconscious body. "YOU… shut the fuck… NO! you fucking… you…"

Ah, fuck it.

Ya know, nobody can do Al Pacino, like Al Pacino.

The little Asian owner stopped yelling and looked at his newly blood stained wall, then at me.

I straightened myself and walked up to the counter. "To go for Cullen?"

He paused another minute before pulling a bag off of the stainless steel shelf behind him and handed it to me with a shaky hand.

I gave him two fifty's and said, "That should cover the food, the mess and then some… he'll be up in a few minutes," nodding to the boy lying on the floor behind me, "you might wanna call 911."

He took the money and simply nodded to me, still shaking.

Before leaving the tiny river front restaurant, I picked the kid's gun up off of the floor and tossed it onto the counter. As I made my way up the stairs in the back alley to my place, I shook my head at what a complete and utter fucking disappointment today's youth was in the US.

At the top of the stairs, I checked the points of interest outside of my apartment before entering.

The shards of glass on the ground were still intact, the tape on the door hadn't been tampered with, and the wire on the windows had not been moved.

Even I had to shake my head at my own over active imagination about people being out to get me.

Paranoid much, Cullen?

I pushed the key into the lock and entered the one-thousand square foot area that I call home. I checked my watch again. I still had a good fifteen minutes to eat, clean up, change and only be fashionably late to Alice's latest clothing show. I was okay with that, since it meant I wouldn't have to do the socially acceptable thing and interact with the rest of my family before the show. Alice is the only member of said family that I still associate with… on a friendly basis that is. Long story.

Feel the love. Relish in it.

Other than the fuckery that some might call my lineage, I am actually pretty content with my life.

I live alone. I have a one bedroom, one bath apartment, white walls, no color. I keep meaning to paint, but you know… life. There's one black leather sectional sofa in the living room and some candles on the shelves that I've never lit along with some pictures of me, Alice and Emmett from when we were kids.

Good times.

There's No TV whatsoever, I don't have time for that shit, and no fucking play station or any of those other mind fuck games either. I'd rather read a book, which I have a hell of a lot of. It's an addiction… there's worse things out there. Believe me.

The kitchen is small, it has a stove, but I don't cook. I didn't say I couldn't cook, I just choose not to. The refrigerator doesn't have much in it, just leftovers from miscellaneous take out joints, and there is a large bag of Purina dog food leaning against it for the stray mutt I feed that hangs around outside sometimes.

He's some sort of mixed breed from what I can tell. Definitely part Yellow Lab, possibly part Chow too, he's pretty fucking grumpy sometimes. I think that's why I like him, he reminds me of me.

Hey, don't knock it. He's someone to talk to, and accepts me for who I am, which is more than I can say for most people I know.

A bottle of Patron Silver Tequila adorns my coffee table at all goddamn times. Because I fucking love the shit, and it's the best. It's that simple.

My Taylor T5 Acoustic-Electric Guitar sits in its case most days, next to the Patron. It's for particularly bad days only. I say that like bad days are rare. And yes, I play that motherfucker like your sister's pussy in the back of my Aston Martin v12 Vanquish.

Call me Elvis.

The simplicity of the apartment shouldn't fool you. I'm paid pretty god damn well for what I do. I just don't like to waste good money on living space. I'd rather put that shit away for 'a rainy day' so to speak and I'm pretty fucking happy with having very little space to clean actually.

I have a closet full of almost the same outfits for most days, varying slightly in color only. Jeans for work, jeans for play, and jeans for every fucking thing in between. Hanging next to the jeans, are some turtlenecks, a few button down shirts and vintage tees from some of my favorite concerts over the years. I own one black leather jacket for cold days and a scarf my mother gave to me when I graduated from the Academy. Another long story.

There's a closet that mirrors this one. I don't use it much. It's chock full of clothes Alice has brought by for me from her collections. She thinks I need to step up my wardrobe. I keep the clothes, because I love my sister, and because she'd beat my ass senseless if I tried to get rid of them.

I have an iPod player for music and a queen sized bed for sleeping. And speaking of beds, I never bring women here, that just wouldn't fucking fly considering the intricate computer and communications center that's set up in what really should be a dining room. I don't need people snooping through my shit if you know what I mean. I've got it wired so that if I was to need to leave in a hurry, nothing would be salvageable upon my departure.

If I was to want to fuck someone for the evening, which, let's face it, I need to blow off some goddamn steam every once in a while, I usually arrange to go to their place, or just rent a fucking hotel room for the night, what difference does it make to me?

I don't do relationships. They don't fit into my lifestyle.

Seriously, that really is the reason.

I carry several types of IDs, a passport, plenty of cash, and weapons you've probably never heard of before.

I'm typically hired by private citizens to solve their own personal mysteries or crimes committed against them, but every so often, the DC Police call upon me for my expertise in a case. I know, pretty fucking sad isn't it? They can't even handle their own goddamn work load. But it happens. Plus, they don't like me much, so if I get killed in cross fire, no skin off their backs. Lucky for me I guess that I'm motherfucking kick ass at what I do.

My name is Edward Cullen, I'm a private investigator. Or as some of my close friends call me, a "private dick".

That was a joke. I have no close friends.

I'm lucky to make it alive through a lot of days, and from what I hear, I'm not a joy to be around, but I get the fucking job done. There isn't a criminal around this area that doesn't know my name and avoid my ass at all costs. There also isn't a cheating spouse that hasn't heard of me and doesn't watch their back when they're out gallivanting with their mistress or sugar daddy.

Hey, if I make one dumb fuck think twice about getting some action somewhere other than their own home, it makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Another joke. I don't do warm and fuzzy. Ever.

I'm completely misunderstood and unloved, my childhood was stressful, leaving me with relationship issues, and I may or may not have a small anger management problem.

At least that's what my court appointed shrink says.

Welcome to my world.

A/N: Be gentle. I'm a delicate flower.