All characterizations, plot lines, backgrounds and details belong to the author. Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight.

Many Thanks to Robbsweetangel, my wonderful Twilighted beta.

A very special thanks to my incredible beta, Lattecoug. Much love! Check out her latest story Reluctant Hearts.

A million thanks to my dear friend who has once again provided the inspiration for this story. As often happens with most things I write, this came about from a random conversation with MizzezPattinson, this time about a birthday present for her son. Thank you, my dear friend for pre-reading this story, and most of all, for your friendship.

We could all use some fluffy fun, couldn't we? You won't find any long term angst or tears here. There's too much of that in our real lives. It's almost summer in Canada, and time for lots of drinking, warm days on the beach, and long, hot nights. Come, join me for a romp through the lives one cocky Edward Cullen, and one opinionated Bella Swan.

A warning- if you do not like profuse swearing or repeated references to sex, this may not be the story for you. If that doesn't bother you, then come inside and enjoy Kink.

Chapter 1


"Fucking hell!" My hand slips for the fourth time as I try in vain to apply gold leaf inlay to Tyler Crowley's fucking cheap mountain bike. I whip the brush across the room in the direction of the closed door to the back office where the primeval sounds of my fucking Neanderthal brother Emmett, and his skank of a girlfriend Rosalie echo above all others.

Okay, so maybe Rose isn't a skank per say. She's better than the last psychotic train wreck Emmett decided to fuck, and she's actually made it through the two week cut without him tossing her to the curb like he usually does. Even though she's not the sharpest knife in the drawer, she doesn't put up with his shit like most of the other doormats he tends to gravitate to. She's actually got a backbone, and I can appreciate that.

What I don't appreciate however, is the fact that they are currently doing God only knows what on the brand new leather sofa in the office- hence the reason why I'm branding her as a skank at the moment.

As the brush makes impact with the door and falls to the floor, I contemplate turning up Metallica on the iPod stereo system to drown them out, but it's already cranked to the max. I glare at the shut door as they continue to fuck each other's brains out before chewing harder on my toothpick to the point that it breaks in half.

The sharp, jagged edge bites into the roof of my mouth, pricking the skin as I swear another blue streak. It's the millionth fucking time that's happened since I decided to quit smoking a month ago.

Right now, I'm wishing I hadn't taken Jasper up on his stupid bet that I couldn't quit for the entire summer. That little brain wave came to him after I started practically coughing up a lung when we were out on a mountain bike trail which he said was, and I quote, "easy."

Yeah, I smoke-a lot, actually. It's one of the ways I deal with stress. Unfortunately for me, I'm never one to turn down a dare, particularly when it involves a special edition bottle of 100 Proof Jack as the prize that Jasper is waving in my face.

Jasper Hale is like a brother to Emmett and I. He's a semi-pro mountain biker, and was our very first customer – well, guinea pig may be a better description. We didn't really know what the fuck we were doing when we first started the bike shop, but somehow, Jasper believed in both of us. Once other riders saw the work we had done to his bike, the business started to boom.

Jasper and his girlfriend, Alice, are permanent fixtures at the shop and in our lives. My parents treat them like their own, partially because neither one of them had what you would like to call an ideal childhood, but mostly because they are two of the most genuine people you'll ever meet. There's no bullshit with Jasper and Alice. They simply tell it like it is. It's a quality I think more people need to have.

When he's not competing in mountain bike races, Jasper is the phys-ed teacher at Ruth Hooker Public School. You can't make that shit up. That's the actual name of the school- Ruth Hooker- and because Emmett and I have the combined maturity of an adolescent, we make fun of it as often as we can.

Much to Jasper's luck-though both of them say it was fate, which I do not believe in- Alice arrived as the school's librarian during his second year of teaching, effectively taking a very single Jasper permanently off the market. Even though we torment Jasper about being pussy-whipped, it's nice to see two people stay together who actually love each other. It gives me a glimmer of hope that it's possible.

I haven't exactly had a whole lot of luck in the long-term relationship arena, but it's a fact that you won't hear me complaining about. I like women and sex, and I like my freedom too much to even think about giving it up. The only problem with it is that Emmett and I have essentially whored our way through the acceptable dating pool in town, and I'm getting bored. So, I try to focus on my job.

We opened Kink, our custom bike paint and restoration shop, a little over seven years ago. Having grown up with a father who restored vintage cars for a living, and a mother who is the curator of the local art gallery, I guess you could say we were born with a creative gene. Although, it did sort of bypass Emmett a bit. He focuses on repairing and restoring damaged bikes, while I do all the custom designs and painting.

Kink has developed a reputation in the biking community of being the place in the country to get custom work done. Hand painting, air brushing, pin-striping, custom lettering, vintage repairs, we do it all.

Being situated in the middle of goddamn nowhere, Canada, aka Selkirk, or as we sometimes call it, Hellkirk, it's not unusual for us to have bikes shipped in from either coast to be worked on.

Selkirk is your typical Canadian summer tourist town. The meager population of just under ten thousand, balloons to nearly twice the size during the summer months as cottagers flock for their yearly holiday retreat from their lives in the big city.

They come to spend time at the white sand dunes of Winnipeg Beach, to sit back in their Muskoka chairs on their decks and take life a little easier for a while, to wander down the boardwalk in nearby Gimli, and spend their hard-earned money on ridiculous tacky souvenirs, like key chains of Chuck the fucking Channel Cat. Yes, we have a mascot… a fucking catfish, of all things. Selkirk is after all, the self proclaimed North American capital of catfish.

Once Labour Day comes and the tourists abandon ship, the streets roll up, and we get ready for the sheer hell that is the Canadian winter. Minus forty and several feet of snow at a time is not unusual. It's fucking cold, but we get through it, complaining the entire time, of course.

But for now, the town is buzzing as the vacationers start to descend. We frequently get annoying tourists wandering into the store during the extremely short and mosquito-ridden summer. They typically stare up at the display of restored bikes, looking like fucking idiots with their mouths hanging open. They ooh and ah and say things like, "Wow! These should be in a museum," or the occasional, "It's so pretty! Why would you want to ride it?" Like I said, tourists are usually not rocket scientists.

That doesn't mean that I don't enjoy them. I'd be lying if I said I was innocent in that regard – well, in any regard, actually. The single women who come here for summer vacation are perfect for me, giving me a break from the monotony of the women I tend to fuck.

They prance down the boardwalk where our shop is situated, dressed in next to nothing, leaving little to the imagination, and none of them are looking for a serious commitment. Some of them just want to have a one night stand, and that suits me just fine. I don't need a relationship to screw up what we've worked so hard for.

Because both Emmett and I are fucking good at our jobs, the shop does extremely well. It's not cheap to get a custom painted bike created by yours truly. I care about my work. I only use the best quality paints, I hand-prep everything, and I never cut corners. If you're going to shell out a grand or more to get your bike painted, it better be fucking awesome.

I shake my head at the frame of Tyler's poor excuse for a bike. The custom work I'm doing costs triple what he paid for this piece of shit. By the time I'm finished with it, no one will know that he bought it at Canadian Tire - probably on fucking sale, no less.

I've spent years perfecting the way I work, and Emmett knows that I hate to be disturbed when I'm doing something as goddamn tedious as gold leafing. Sometimes, I think he lives to piss me off.

I push back the chair from the bike, and it makes a horrific scratching sound as it scrapes across the hardwood that Emmett just laid down a week ago, but I don't give a fuck. Fucking asshole. He'll go ballistic that his precious floor is ruined, but he deserves it. It's not like they can't go to Emmett's place; he just lives around the corner for fuck's sake, and I've got a fucking deadline to get this bike done.

Unable to take the rhythmic banging of the couch against the wall that continues to annoy the fuck out of me, I abandon the workroom and stalk out to the front, reaching into my back pocket for my faithful toothpick box and popping another one into my mouth.

I'm really fucking close to caving on this bet, and I wonder idly if Emmett is deliberately trying to make me crack. He and Jasper would love nothing more than to sit back and enjoy that 100 Proof Jack while laughing at my inability to control myself. I would never live it down.

My oral fixation satisfied for the moment, I hear the unmistakable, aggravating sound of the welcoming bells as they fall back against the front door, signaling no doubt another tourist designed to test my patience.

I could kill Alice for getting us those fucking bells. She said they bring good luck, or some shit. I don't dare take them down however. The wrath of Alice is really something I don't need or want to deal with.

Rounding the corner to the front of the store and leaving the whore moans behind me, I stop in my tracks, my eyes falling to finest ass I've seen in a very long time. Practically poured into a pair of black skinny jeans that stretch in all the right places, I take a moment to fully appreciate the sight in front of me.

Long, dark brown hair is pulled back into a messy ponytail as the woman crouches down in front of one of the baskets of painted brake levers on the floor. As she picks one of them up, she stands slowly, and holds it up to the light like she's examining it for flaws.

Her tight purple t-shirt creeps up ever so slightly, revealing a sliver of the small of her back as she turns the lever in her hand. My cock twitches at the sight of her smooth skin highlighted against the fluorescent lights of the store, and I find myself chewing harder on the toothpick.

My eyes travel down her outstretched arm, taking in the half sleeve tattoo which has clearly been done by someone who knows what the fuck they're doing. It's extremely detailed with vibrant colours that wind their way down her forearm. As intricate as it is, it looks to be not quite finished, with a few areas outlined, but not yet filled in.

I feel a smirk creep across my lips as I watch her. If the rest of this tempting little one is even half as appealing as what I'm currently seeing, I'm going to have one hell of a night.

Deciding it's time to see more, I clear my throat and lean an elbow against the front counter. She whirls around to me, deep brown eyes widening for just a flicker of a second as they meet mine. It doesn't escape me that she takes her sweet time checking me out, and so I do the same.

My eyes scan the delicate features of her face, dropping to her fuckable mouth, the curve of her neck, lingering on the swell of her breasts as they peek out from the pronounced v-neck t-shirt that makes me want to see more.

She clears her own throat, much like I did, and I raise my eyes to meet hers once more. She lifts a brow to me. Clearly I've been caught eye-fucking her. Sue me.

"I think you may be lost," I say, cocking my head to one side at her. There's no way this fine creature is a rider, unless she's just getting into it. She's looking at the brake lever like's it's from another planet. Maybe she has a boyfriend who rides. I sure fucking hope not.

She nods slowly. "I think I might be, unless sex shops are extremely different in Selkirk," she deadpans.

The toothpick breaks in my mouth at her words, piercing the side of my cheek and causing me to curse under my breath. "Fuck me," I mutter, trying desperately to get rid of the fucking toothpick from hell as inconspicuously as possible.

Slipping it into my back pocket, I return her raised brow. "Sex shop?" I ask, my voice sounding slightly higher than normal.

"Mhmm." She turns to point to the orange neon sign affixed above the door. "Kink?"

I can't contain my chuckle. "It's the name of a BMX bike," I explain.

"Well… that would explain why I don't know what this is," she says, waving the brake lever at me, her intense gaze never wavering from mine. "It's amazing, whatever it is."

"It's a Tektro Eclipse brake lever."

"Huh," she says, turning it over in her hand and studying it again. "Tektro...Ec... Do they all look like this?"

"Only the ones I work on."

Her eyes snap back up to mine. "You made this?" she asks unbelievably, though I'm finding it hard to concentrate as my eyes seem to be focused on her enticing lips as they move.

"Well, I painted it. Yes."

"I wouldn't have taken you as an artsy guy," she says matter-of-factly.

I lift a brow. "Artsy guy?" My smirk widens. "Then what exactly would you take me as?"

"Um… I'm sorry-that didn't come out right. I shouldn't have said that. God I'm an idiot sometimes," she rambles. "Look, I just moved here and I needed a few things." She says it innocently, as if she's just looking for directions to the grocery store. Naughty little thing.

I can't hide my amusement as I answer, "Things that you can only get in a sex shop?"

She narrows her eyes at me slightly. "My favourite vibrator appears to have not survived the move, if you must know," she answers in annoyance.

"Well, that's a damn shame."

She nods in agreement. "You have no idea," she says seriously.

"Good vibrators are hard to come by?"

She shakes her head at me in frustration or amusement; it's hard to tell which. "I can't believe I'm having this conversation with you. My mother would be mortified. She's so reserved! I think she should have been a nun… well, I mean obviously she's not, or I wouldn't be here, right?" she blurts out, looking slightly mortified as she thrusts the brake lever towards me.

I slowly hold out my hand as she drops it into my palm, my eyes staying locked to hers. "You have very nice… levers, or whatever you called you them. I'm just gonna go now," she almost whispers, backing up to the door. "Let's pretend this…" She motions between us with her hand a couple of times. "Never happened."

I grin while she pushes open the door, the bells clanging as it shuts behind her. I watch out the window, dumbfounded as to what the fuck just happened as she tucks her head down, turning to make her way down the street.

I find myself striding to the door, hauling it open and shouting to her retreating form. "Hey! Naughty one!"

She stops in her tracks and waits a beat before turning back to me while a few shoppers on the street pass us by. "How To Be Naughty is about four blocks down."

I'm rewarded by a smile that overtakes her face as she nods to me and holds her fist up above her head, shouting back, "I don't need to know how to be naughty. I just am." She turns on her heel, her head now held high, and weaves her way through the afternoon shoppers on the boardwalk while I just stand there like an idiot, my mouth hanging open, and left to wonder how the fuck I didn't even get her name.



My heart feels like it's going to burst through my shirt as I throw my head back, laughing to myself while I make my way down the street. Anyone looking at me must think I'm an absolute idiot. They wouldn't be far off.

Who has conversations about lost vibrators with perfect strangers? Okay, not just any perfect stranger, an extremely hot yet cocky stranger who eye-fucked me (not that I minded), and who I think has a nipple piercing, if I'm not mistaken, and a tattoo peeking out from the sleeve of his t-shirt, but still. Who does that? Me, apparently.

Way to make a first impression in your new home town, Bella.

Yet, I have to say if the rest of the guys in Selkirk are even half as hot as the pretty boy with two days worth of stubble in the bike shop disguised as a sex store is, I'm going to really enjoy it here.

I start laughing louder at where my priorities are. I haven't even gone to the grocery store yet, and have survived the last day on granola bars and flat Diet Pepsi left over from the drive from hell. Any other normal person would have made finding a grocery store a priority. Me? Nope. I need to replace my vibrator.

When I unceremoniously arrived in Selkirk a little over twenty-four hours ago, the vibrator wasn't the only thing that didn't make it unscathed. A couple of boxes of my favourite books and CDs are missing, but more importantly, and something which caused me to have a minor meltdown, the glass is cracked on a few of my framed pictures of Charlie and me on our various trips around small town Ontario.

Stupid fucking movers. And of course, because Charlie opted not to buy insurance, the moving company just gave me some lame ass song and dance, apologizing for the broken glass and claiming they would look for the mystery boxes of lost items. I'm not holding my breath.

As I make my way down the boardwalk and try to push the thoughts of the pretty-boy- want-to-be artist out of my mind, I look out over the Red River. This is the kind of place Charlie would love. A small town, friendly people, not much to do but just sit back and appreciate life.

That's what we used to do – every day, and on every trip we took together. There was never an agenda with Charlie and me. Things were always simple and easy. Charlie and my mom Renee divorced when I fourteen. Their marriage was a case where the theory of opposites attracting didn't last.

Renee was home schooled and came from an extremely religious family-church on Sundays, bible study, the whole nine yards. Charlie, on the other hand was a bad ass – at least that's what he says- and constantly in trouble with the law. It was never anything major, some minor vandalism, and a few nights spent drunk and passed out in an Ottawa holding cell, but they were complete opposites.

They met at an outdoor summer concert where Renee escaped from under the watchful eye of her parents for just long enough to spill frozen lemonade all over Charlie and his leather pants.

To hear them tell the story it was like fucking time stood still that night. I'm not sure I believe that, but a whirlwind relationship followed which her parents fought every step of the way, until it became obvious that tattooed Charlie wasn't going anywhere. Well, that and the fact that neither one of them was smart enough to think about birth control, which of course resulted in an unplanned bun in the oven.

I guess you could say that I come by my spontaneous nature naturally. I tend not to think too much about consequences. I like to live in the now. You never know when life is going to come up and bite you in the ass. Life's too short to worry about what ifs.

Unfortunately, my parent's marriage didn't last. The divorce was a good one – as good as divorces can be. They don't hate each other's guts, and that's a win compared to some of the other fucked up relationships I've seen.

I wasn't too surprised when they told me. I was just entering my teens at the time, and it could have really fucked me up, but I saw it coming a mile away. They were just two completely different people with little left in common but me.

Renee moved to Toronto where she is now a director of a charity there, and Charlie continued on with his tattoo shop in Ottawa. I opted to stay with Charlie, not wanting to uproot myself from my precious circle of friends and start over in a new city.

Life with Charlie has always been interesting, to say the least. He would frequently take me out of school, and we would head out to some town in the middle of fucking nowhere on his Harley because he had heard that they made great cheese, or were famous for something equally obscure.

On a whim after one of these grand adventures, I asked that he give me a tattoo that reminded him of the town we had been in, and thus began the chronicling of my teenage years with Charlie on my right arm.

I absently run my index finger over the outline that he hasn't finished yet. I left Ottawa before he had a chance to, after seeing an ad online for an ice cream truck that was for sale.

Some may think that is a spur of the moment and ridiculous decision, to move your life from Ottawa to the middle of Manitoba all for the sake of an floundering ice cream business, and they would probably be right.

The truth is, no one really tells you that a degree in Sociology from the University of Ottawa is worth fuck all in terms of a real career. You apply for jobs which look to be in your field, and inevitably the stuffy interviewer who looks like they have a pencil shoved up their ass, tells you that you need more schooling or more experience, neither of which I am interested in doing.

I'm currently using my Sociology degree to its maximum potential being gainfully employed at a corner kiosk in The Market selling BeaverTails to tourists who ask idiotic questions like, "Can I get to the Rocky Mountains and back in an hour?" or, equally dim-witted, "What do you do with all the snow when it melts?"

I shouldn't really complain. I know it could be worse. With my circle of friends slowly married off and enjoying life in suburbia with their two-point-five kids and stupid minivans, I didn't really have anything else going on. So one night, when I was incredibly bored and surfing porn, I came across the ice cream truck ad, and decided to haul ass to Manitoba.

Charlie actually thought it was a great idea, and even gave me some money he claimed to have saved up for me. I know that's a crock of shit. Charlie doesn't plan anything well enough to have saved money for me. I know it's likely whatever stash of cash he just happened to have in the tatt shop at the time.

So, with the cash from Charlie in hand, and an apartment available in Selkirk through "a guy Charlie knows," I piled into my aging 1979 black Trans Am, complete with a silver eagle on the hood, thank you very much, and started the long trek to Manitoba. I didn't ask any questions about how Charlie just happens to know a guy in Selkirk. It's probably best that I don't know the answer to that particular question.

The Trans Am, a gift from Charlie upon my graduation, is definitely on its last legs, and any other normal parent would probably question its ability to make it over two thousand kilometers, but that thought never entered Charlie's head. He was too busy getting a CD player installed in the thing, and burning me CD's with what he called "essential road trip tunes." Apparently, said tunes consist of classic rock from the sixties and seventies, and eighties hair bands… perfect for a trip that lasted over two extremely long fucking days.

Charlie's only ask was that I call him a few times during the trip. I don't think that he was concerned about my well-being, as much as he wanted to know if I came across any random attractions that he could eventually add to my growing tattoo.

So, with The Guess Who blaring from the less than stellar speakers, I made my way across the massive province that is Ontario, stopping in random towns to take pictures on my iPhone to send to Charlie, and praying that the Trans Am wouldn't keel over and die on me.

Like an idiot, I left Charlie in charge of arranging the shipment of the stuff I couldn't jam into the car, which is probably why when I arrived, half of it was in crushed in boxes, and it's also why I'm currently in desperate need of a replacement for my vibrator.

I shelled out almost two and fifty hundred dollars for that vibrator, and it was worth every penny. I have my doubts that I'll ever find anything battery operated or human that remotely comes close to matching the experience Jake has provided me over the years.

Yes, that's how close of a relationship I had with that vibrator. I named him. Jake was loyal, always there for me when I needed him, and never, ever disappointed me. I can't say that about the string of horrific loser boyfriends I had prior to leaving the nation's capital.

A chorus of giggling girls coming out of a store brings me back to the now, and I look up to the pink neon sign above the door that signals I've arrived just where the pretty boy said I would, in front of How To Be Naughty.

Unconvinced that I'm going to find something half way decent in a place that looks sketchy at best, I haul open the door and wander in to find my replacement for Jake.

Chapter end notes:


Twitter: CarLemon

Selkirk: Real town, located just outside of Winnipeg, MB, Canada – It's wonderful.

Ruth Hooker Public School: Actual school, located in Selkirk – No, you can't make that name up.

Kink: A real BMX bike brand

Tektro Eclipse: An actual brake lever typically used on mountain bikes

The Guess Who: Iconic Canadian band from Winnipeg

BeaverTails: Pastry goodness with assorted toppings: w w w. beavertailsinc.c o m

Updates of this quick and silly story: Every Monday