A/N All Twilight character's belong to Stephenie Meyer

I got this idea a few nights ago...I'm still working on my other story, Full Circle, but this is just something fun that came to me and so yeah, he we are now...anywhoo..let me know if you like it and I'll keep writing it.


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I shut the mailbox and looked down at the envelope in my hands. It was thick, brown, and squishy in my hands. As I squeezed down there was the faint crinkling of plastic. I groaned, not sure if I really wanted to know what was inside of it, and shoved the envelope in my purse. Whatever was in there was it was not going to be good.

Alice, this was all her fault. It really wasn't but she was the easiest person to blame. If it wasn't for her Jimmy Buffet-it's-five-o'clock-somewhere attitude I wouldn't be standing here shoving God only knows what into my purse. Rex, my last real relationship – if you could even call him that - had decided that he was bored in our relationship so he turned to a stripper named Daisy to keep him entertained. This was how Alice's margarita fetish came into play.

She danced into my living room four nights ago, a pink margarita glass in hand; humming OneRepublic then sank down into the leather computer chair tucked neatly under my desk. She sipped her drink before setting it down on an upside down CD. "I know exactly what you need," she giggled as her fingers flew over the keyboard. I stood behind her, peering over her shoulder as the most embarrassing website popped up on the screen.

I stared, appalled, at the screen. "What?" she said grinning at me. "This is awesome right?" She moved the mouse, hovering over the image of a ferocious, hot pink...Jesus I don't even know what the hell it was, it looked like it could shred your vagina to a million pieces fifteen seconds faster than my high tech food processor sitting on the kitchen counter.

"Alice, I…jeez…" I let my voice trail off. What the hell could I say? I wasn't a prude, by no means was I a prude...but that thing was just…well, it was scary looking.

Alice gazed up at me, laughing at my horrified expression. "Trust me," she sang, mischief twinkling in her eyes. "You're gonna want something like this. Nights are gonna be really long now that your single again."

Thanks for that, I thought. It'd been five long years since I was single. I was pushing twenty eight now and definitely not looking forward to being single again. On the bright side though, if there was a bright side in this mess, I could have sex again, and lots of it, with lots of different men. I could finally sleep with the guy in the corner office. That made me smile; he was, pardon my immaturity, hot.

Alice clicked on the image of the vibrating monstrosity and oohed over its many features. I rolled my eyes as I walked into the kitchen. The pitcher was sitting on the counter, beads of sweat rolled down its sides. An empty glass was waiting on the counter, beckoning me to have a drink. Ah what the hell I thought and poured the green drink into my cup.

Alice was still engrossed in the giant vibrator when I came back with my margarita. She leaned intently forward, her elbows resting on the desktop.

"Bella, come here and look at this thing," she said, her face a pale mask in the light of the monitor. I stood behind her sipping my drink, still not convinced I needed that thing.

Four margaritas later (I'm such a lightweight) I was drunkenly whipping out my credit card as Alice stood on the back of the couch, a margarita in one hand, an umbrella in the other, shouting the perils of not owning a, what she randomly dubbed, "battery operated boyfriend."

"You need a B.O.B," she laughed, "Because Rex could never get you off!" she trumpeted, her umbrella accentuating her statement.

"Every woman should own a B.O.B!" she ranted

I giggled, fingers flying over the numeric pad, as she moved on to the perks of owning a "battery operated boyfriend."

"B.O.B never disappoints," she crowed as I continued the checkout process.

"You can take B.O.B home to meet your stuffy, stick-up-their-asses parents and they will approve!"

"B.O.B fits in your purse, and," she said conspiratorially, her voice dropping an octave or ten, "I carry mine with me everywhere I go. Wanna see it?"

The next morning when I saw the email confirming my order I stared at the bold black print summarizing my order, then the price caught my eye. I gasped in horror. That was the worst part of all. Three hundred and fifty six dollars! On sex toys!

Then the thought: what would the neighbors, no, the mailman think delivering three hundred and fifty six dollars of sex toys to my apartment.

Alice giggled on the couch. "Calm down," she said as if I'd spoken my concerns aloud. "They send this stuff out in what they call "discreet packaging." It's no big deal."

And here we were now, a plain brown eight by ten padded envelope stuffed in my purse, shame all over my face.

As the elevator doors opened, I stepped out; Mrs. McNealy was standing in the hallway, pacing. I kept my eyes down, averted. If I made eye contact she'd ask me to do something for her. Those things ranged from plugging in her toaster to…well let's just say that you don't even want to know the half of it.

Further down the hall, Mrs. McNealy stopped, blocking my door. I groaned silently; all I wanted to do what get the hell out of these shoes. Jimmy Choo, I love you to pieces but your damn Leona heels are killing my feet. I took a deep breath as I approached the old woman.

Liz McNealy lived across the hall when I moved in. Her husband was alive back then and her kids were still in the area, she was still relatively sane. She was a sweet woman until her husband died. After that her life was like a house of cards; it all came tumbling down around her.

Her husband died; a stroke I think is what they said, then her youngest son – who was, or is, in the army, was sent to Iraq, her daughter moved out east, to New York after auditioning and getting a part in the American Ballet Theatre. Her oldest son, Richard I think his name was, still lived in the area, but from what I could see he was domineering and controlling and all around dick. I don't think it helped Liz having him around.

After all that Liz sort of just…well, she lost it. I could hear her crying at all hours of the day and night. Sometimes she'd knock on my door asking for a cup of sugar just so she could have someone to talk to. Tonight was no different. Her watery blue eyes were sad when I walked up. She smiled at me; I tentatively smiled back. "Hi Mrs. McNealy, everything okay?"

Mrs. McNealy nodded, shrugging her shoulders. "I got a new flashlight in the mail," she said offhandedly. I sighed, here we go again, I thought. She did this sometimes. It may have started with her husband's death and her children moving away, but soon after her memory started to go. She started to forget the simplest of things. Doctors said it was the beginning stages of Alzheimer's.

"You got a new flashlight?" I repeated.

Mrs. McNealy nodded. "It doesn't work, but it's so pretty. Whenever I turn it on, it shakes and makes the most awful buzzing noise. Maybe you could take a look at it and help me out?"

I sighed and readjusted my purse and laptop case. "Sure," I said, "show me your flashlight."

"Thank you dear, you're such a sweet girl." Mrs. McNealy shuffled toward her door, a tissue tucked under the band of her slim gold watch, a pale blue cardigan hung limply on her bony shoulders. I followed her, the heels of my Jimmy Choo's clicking on the tile floor. Mrs. McNealy opened her door and led the way to the kitchen. I followed a step behind making sure the door closed behind me.

"I'm in here dear," Liz called from the kitchen. I heard the faint buzzing of something, that I figured to be her flashlight. As I rounded the corner Liz McNealy was standing in the center of her kitchen, Alice's god awful vibrator was swinging in ridiculous circles.

I felt my face flush and I reached out for the vibrator. "Mrs. McNealy," I said softly. "This isn't a flashlight."

Confusing colored her face and her faded eyebrows drew together. "It's not?"

I shook my head no. "It's an, um well, it's an adult toy. I think it's called a vibrator."

Mrs. McNealy laughed gaily. "Oh, well then," she chuckled, the ghost of her former vibrant self flickered in her eyes. She handed the mass of pink, quivering latex to me. I tried to keep my expression neutral, to not show how much this thing was grossing me out. "You have it. I'm an old woman, Lord knows if I used that I'd be going to see my Larry a lot sooner than the good Lord intended. I'm sorry to have bothered you dear."

I mumbled the first coherent thought that came to mind and shoved the vibrator in my purse. Then it clicked. Vibrator? Check. Lube? Possibly. My thoughts flickered to the brown envelope with the squishy contents.

"Say," Mrs. McNealy called before I had the chance to make a clean getaway. "Are you still seeing that tattooed fellow?"

I shook my head no. "We broke up. Why?"

"My oldest boy, Richard, he has a son, my grandson, he's coming out to visit me next week," she said this proudly.

"Oh that's nice."

"Would you like to go out with him?"

Talk about adding insult to injury. The woman probably just spent the better half of the afternoon playing with a battery operated dildo and now she wanted me to go on a blind date with her grandson.

"I…" Stall, I told myself, better yet, come up with a really, really, really great excuse. I drew a blank. "Let me check my calendar and get back to you, okay?"

Mrs. McNealy nodded and shut the door behind me. I shook my head. Could this month get any worse? I wondered as I fished my keys out of the adult sex shop that was taking over my purse.

Safely back in my apartment, I shut off the vibrator then disdainfully carried it to me room, slid open the drawer of the bedside table, and tossed it in, watching as it topped a sheaf of paper, burying it under a papery mound. Then I went back to the kitchen and pulled out the envelope.

Just as I suspected, lube; Kama Sutra Warming Gel for Women. I carried the pretty pink tube to my room and tossed it into the same drawer as the vibrator. Pushing the drawer shut with the toe of my Choo's, I sank down onto the edge of the bed.

I missed Rex. I glanced longingly over at his side of the bed. Rex was a slob, I thought ruefully as I glanced at his neatly made side of the bed. He never made the bed and it irritated me to no end. I liked coming home after a long day at the office and seeing a neatly made bed; it made climbing under the covers with a good book and a cup of tea so much better.

Now you can have lots of nights like that, I thought. I bit the inside of my cheek. I didn't want nights like that. I wanted messy Rex and his messy side of the bed and dirty jeans tossed over the back of my couch. I wanted to trip over motorcycle boots and fuck up the aptly named polish on my toes. I say aptly because ninety percent of the time the name fit my mood. Most of the time it was a dark purple, nearly black polish fittingly called Give Me Moor. Because I wanted more from Rex; we'd been together for five years and he was still the same, devil may care rebel I fell in love with back in college. He never took anything seriously. Mostly because he said I took life seriously enough for the both of us.

I sighed again and flung myself back, my body sinking in to the expensive pillow top mattress. I laid there staring at the ceiling thinking that this was a new beginning, that being almost thirty and newly single couldn't be that bad, could it?