DISCLAIMER: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the intellectual property to the respective author. The original characters and plot are the property of Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement is intended.

WARNING: This story is a mixture of Gone in Sixty Seconds, Natural Born Killers, True Romance, and The Chase. If any of those movies are out of your comfort zone, I would recommend that you flounce now. There will be an HEA, guaranteed. If you're still down to roll with me, welcome to Chop and Change, and let's do this.

-Chapter One-

I'd seen this done once or twice in my life, mostly from movies, but I didn't think it would be that difficult. You take a hanger and slide it in between the door and the window, and after a minute of jiggling it a bit, the door was supposed to unlock.

No such luck.

The lock wasn't budging, and this shit was pointless. I wasn't a car thief. I wasn't even eighteen. No, I just was a runaway who was in way over her head.

I needed money.

I needed a place to sleep.

I needed food.

I needed a lot come to think of it.

What's sad was that not too long ago, those needs of mine were met. They weren't even a thought; they were just there, because I had a home once.

Not anymore, and I couldn't go back.

Renee didn't care that I was gone. All she wanted was Phil—her sack of shit husband who wanted to fondle his stepdaughter.

No such luck.

"Shit," I cursed; the metal wire slipping from my hand and jamming into my palm.

I glanced around in a panic, assuming that I'd been caught. Wouldn't that be perfect? Two minutes into the car-jacking business and I get pinched.

But the streets remained quiet and no one was around. The coast was clear for now, but for how long?

Refocusing my attention at the task at hand, I jimmied that hanger deeper into the slit, forcefully and desperately, trying to get this damn car unlocked.

Then there was a click. It was faint, but I heard it. I held my breath and eased my hand down, slowly lifting the door handle up.

It opened.

I was in.

"Fuck yeah," I said, slithering into the driver's seat. I pulled down the driver side visor, hoping that the keys would fall into my lap, but once again, movies lied.

Accepting the fact that I was going to have to do this the hard way, I reached into my back pocket and pulled out my screwdriver.

I wedged it in the crack of the steering wheel and pried the plastic away, exposing the wires. My brows furrowed as I tried to remember how to proceed from there.

Damn, why did I tell Jake I could do this?

It was such an obvious lie. You could just look at me and know for a fact that I was full of shit. I had spunk, though. I guess that was important. I didn't take shit from anyone and I was willing to put up a fight.

Huffing and puffing, I fingered the blue and red wires, trying to figure what the hell to do with them while plotting my next move if this shit went south. That was when I heard the click—no, not a click, but a cocking. It was a cocking of a gun and it was two inches away from my left ear.

I froze.

"Who in the fuck are you—and why in the fuck are you trying steal my car?"

Yup, this was it. This was how I was going to die.

I closed my eyes, bracing myself for the bullet, as I answered the question. "I wasn't stealing it."

"The fuck you weren't," he replied, pressing the muzzle of his gun to my forehead. "Did that asshole Jake send you?"

I nodded once and waited for the pop. But there was nothing, just silence.

"Did you cross him?" he asked, easing the pressure from my temple.

Cross him? What?

That question threw me, and without thought, I turned my head towards the unknown man.

There were many things you expect when you look into the eyes of your killer: normalcy wasn't one, and two, you don't expect them to be so freaking...hot.

He stared down at me, gun still pointed at my head, but his green were eyes soft and filled with sympathy.

I knew in that moment that he wasn't going to kill me.

"I didn't do anything to him. I just met him," I said, slowly putting my hands up.

"Oh, yeah? Then why does he want you dead?"

"I don't know, sir. I needed money and he offered me a job. I don't know anything else."

He lowered his gun and narrowed his eyes at me. "What's your name, Kid?"

I rolled my eyes and scoffed at the term of endearment. "Bella."

"Bella?" he mused, tucking the gun into his waistband, giving me a brief glimpse of his hard stomach and tattoos that laid beneath.

He crouched down getting eye level with me. I could see his face fully now. He had a strong jaw, full lips, and a perfect nose. The piercing in his eyebrow and lip were distracting, but it was the coppery, bronzed colored hair that was standing every which way but straight that truly caught my eye.

Who is this guy?

"How old are you?" he asked.

"Seventeen."

He assessed me briefly, probably deciding what to do with me. He caught me red handed trying to steal his car. I just hoped he didn't call the cops. They would just call Renee and make her come pick me up. I rather die than be put back in that shithole.

He held out his hand to me, and I could see the tattoos that continued on his body, trailing down his arms in an inked sleeve. I jerked away from his polite gesture on pure instinct.

The guy just had a gun to my head. I don't care how hot he was, he was still dangerous.

He seemed to understand my reaction, his hand slowly retreating from me and resting it on the side of the car to balance himself.

"I'm Edward."

"So?"

He smiled, and it was crooked and imperfect, but it suited him.

"Are you hungry, Kid?"