This is my first foray into fan fiction! The first chapter is pretty short; more of a Prologue, but hopefully it will give you a glimpse into Edward's life and leave you wanting more. Hope you enjoy! Please review and let me know what you think. WARNING: This story contains adult language, sexuality, violence, and prescription drug dependency / addiction. It is rated "M" for a reason! If you're underage, this story is not for you.

Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. No copyright infringement is intended.

Hide In Plain Sight

Chapter 1: Pills


2:54 a.m. Bloody bollocks. I had been asleep less than two hours. What the fuck else was new? I ran my hands through my hair and looked around the dimly lit room. I could barely make out the shapes of chairs, tables and other tasteful but bland furnishings. Bloody Seattle hotel rooms.

Suddenly, the snoring started. Again. That must have been what woke me up. I turned towards the source of the offending noise lying next to me in the immense super king-sized bed. Her slight form barely made a bump under the covers. The blanket was pulled all the way up over her head, and only a wild clump of blonde hair showed. The covers did nothing to muffle the sound. Chainsaws had nothing on this girl.

"Jane," I murmured. Nothing. The horrendous noise continued.

"Jane," I said louder, nudging her gently. "Roll over." There was a snort as she seemed to stop breathing for a moment.

"'Kay," she mumbled finally, as she rolled away from me, taking half of the covers with her. She began snoring softly again.

With a groan of frustration I threw off the remaining sliver of sheet that Jane had left me and stumbled toward the bathroom. I shut the door as quietly as possible, and turned on the light, blinding myself. I finally cracked one eye half-open and stared at myself in the immense mirror over the sink, as I braced my arms on the vanity. Bloody hell. I looked like shit. My hair was standing up everywhere. Well, there was nothing new about that. My eyes were bloodshot and rimmed with purple bags the size of sofa cushions. The stubble on my face looked like it hadn't seen a razor in a week. Hadn't I shaved the day before yesterday? Ah, the curse of being a hairy man.

I sighed and scanned the countertop in front of me looking for the familiar brown prescription bottle. The entire surface of the vanity was strewn with both mine and Jane's grooming products. Deodorant, hair spray, hair gel, hair wax, toothpaste, mouthwash, dental floss, blemish cream (how did I still manage to get zits at 27?), five bottles of cologne, eight bottles of perfume, moisturizer – why the hell did we need all this crap anyway? Life was so much simpler before Hollywood – a bar of soap and a stick of deodorant was all I had needed.

I finally found the brown bottle with the white pharmacy label amid the clutter and grabbed it. Whoops, wrong bottle. Jane's name was on this one. Her painkillers. No wonder she was in the other room snoring while I was wide awake at 3-bloody-o-clock in the morning.

Jane had tried to give me some of her pills a couple of times. "I swear, Eddie, just take a couple of these and you'll sleep great. I always do, no matter how much I'm hurting." I had been tempted several times, but always chickened out. I was already throwing back upwards of 20 mg. of Ambien per night. If I added the painkillers – two words came to mind – Heath Ledger. No thanks.

I scrambled around some more on the vanity and finally came up with my bottle. I tipped four of the little white pills into my palm and stared at them. Why did I put myself through this every night? I would stay up as late as I could, thinking "I just need to be good and tired. I'll be able to sleep. I don't need the pills tonight." Then I'd be in the bathroom a couple of hours later scrambling for pills like the fucking addict that I was. At least I had gotten two hours of sleep tonight before giving in. Some nights I just lay and tossed for hours while Jane snored obliviously beside me.

It wasn't like she didn't need her painkillers, though. Jane came off as a bitch to the world at large. Hell, even I thought she was a bitch sometimes, and I was shagging her, for God's sake. What most people didn't know was that Jane has endometriosis, and lives with tremendous pain every day. It tended to make her quite bitchy. Even with the pills, she would sometimes lay curled up in a ball for hours weeping quietly while I helplessly stroked her hair. Even though we were together now, and a source of continued media speculation about our supposed spectacular sex life, the truth was, we just didn't do it that often. She was usually in too much pain, and I was usually too tired or drunk to accomplish much in the lovemaking department.

We made quite a pair. I had seen the paparazzi pictures, just like everyone else in the world. We frequently looked stoned in those pictures, and frequently we were. Jane on her painkillers, and me on my fucking Ambien. Some Hollywood dream couple we were.

After I swallowed the pills down with some water from the faucet, I switched off the bathroom light and made my way silently back to the massive bed where Jane slept quietly now. I slid in beside her and gently eased some of the covers off of her and over my own naked body. I was already starting to feel relaxed and drowsy, and I chanced another look at the glowing red digital clock on the bedside table. 3:30. Had it really taken me that long in the bathroom? Bloody hell. I had to be up in four hours for an un-Godly early meeting with an investment consultant that my agent had set up for me. The money from my last four films had been sitting around in various checking and savings accounts not doing much of anything, and this made my agent Stephanie extremely nervous.

"You're not going to be on top of the world forever, you know," she shrilled at me over the phone most recently. "You're young and a hot commodity now, but what's going to happen if the movie roles dry up? You have to protect your money now so that it will take care of you your whole life. I don't want to turn on my television in ten years and see you on Celebrity Rehab."

If she only knew.

So here I was, getting ready to meet with some hot-shot financial advisor from Texas in less than five hours now, and trust a majority of my life earnings to a complete stranger. After four hours of sleep. So much for "be sure to allow a full 8-10 hours of sleep when using this product". I had never experienced the "sleep driving" or "sleep eating" that were supposed to be among the side-effects of this miracle pharmaceutical, but apparently I was about to engage in "sleep-investing". Solid. As my American friends would say.

My last coherent thought before oblivion claimed me was "I hope this bloke leaves me with enough cash so I can buy a new car when I finally get back to LA".