Irish Note: Ya'lls enthusiasm for this warms my heart. Thank you so much!

Just a reminder, EX is NOT the Edward you know and love. He's an outlaw biker, and his words and actions make that very evident, you've been warned! Now, enjoy the wickedness. *evil grins*

Until Tuesday's update~xoxo Irish

Chapter 6: Reflective Release

(EX POV)

My knee bounces out my agitation and frustration as the crew mills around the clubhouse around me. I stare at the whiskey in the glass in front of me, hoping to find some understanding in its amber depths. I don't know how many I've had, all I know is the bottle is there and it's a hell of a lot emptier than when I left chapel. I think everyone knows not to fucking mess with me just from the vibes rolling off my body, because they sure as hell stay away.

My mind reels and my blood boils as Pop's words roll around in my head. I've always had a problem with authority, I fucking HATE being told what to do. The fact that it's not only my father but also the Pres of the MC telling me to basically fuck the police chief's daughter so we can put the Chief in our pocket and continue business as usual. Super! This day just keeps getting better and goddamn better.

I swallow back a hefty draw of whiskey, reveling in the fire in my throat until it settles into a warm pool in my belly. My eyes lift to the Wall of Fame, all our most recent mug shots on display. Hell, there are at least a dozen shots behind the current one gracing the wall. Yeah, you could say I have a problem with authority.

Would I have probably tried to tap that on my own? Hell yes, she's fucking gorgeous and she was made to fuck. What chaps my ass is being told to do it. Her wide eyes flash through my mind and it makes the thought that much worse, plus adding in the tight pull I feel in my dick as it starts to harden doesn't make the situation any better. I glance around me to make sure nobody is seeing me sport a woody, relieved in the fact that they are oblivious.

It isn't very often that I second guess anything Pop orders. Hell, I can't remember a single time before now. I think that's what has me so pissed. I'm pissed that I'm being forced to do this and I'm pissed that I fucking want to do it, at least parts of it. The part of having Bella naked beneath me while I pound into her has promising outcomes. I glance down at my crotch, definitely not helping my situation.

Part of my resistance is she's an innocent girl, and I didn't sign up to destroy those when I patched in. Rival charters, low-life fuckers…sure, I don't think twice about dealing with them in whatever way is needed for the good of the club. But, she's not a part of that world. Hell, she's so far removed from that world it's fucking comical.

My blurred vision focuses after a few blinks and I see the empty glass. In my frame of mind, that too pisses me off and I sweep my hand sending it careening to the floor behind the bar gaining some small thrill by hearing it shatter. The bottle neck fits in my hand perfectly as I turn it up.

I need to wrap my head around this. Pres gave an order, I have to do it. I don't have a choice, and somehow that absolves me of some of this guilt I feel. A trilling annoying laughter rings out and turns my head toward the sound. It's one of the sheep, tall and fake in every aspect…fake tan, fake blonde and fake tits. Everything opposite of the image rolling around in my head and I have it. Perfect fucking clarity.

I wobble a bit as I stand, clutching the bottle in my fist. My steps are purposeful, albeit a little unsteady. I wrap my hand around her upper arm and pull, the startled 'oh' from her mouth makes me chuckle. It's a short walk to my room down the hall, I push her inside and follow, and kick the door shut with a slam and turn the lock.

"Strip." I grumble and after her eyes widen a bit, she complies.

"I'm-" She begins.

"Don't fucking care. Shut your mouth and strip." I roar, my patience hanging on by a thread. I have to get HER out of my head, now. I watched as the clothes dropped and fake-baked toned skin is revealed as I open my belt and my drunken fingers pull at the button and zip. She turns and throws out her hands as if she's on a fucking stage and it just adds fuel to the fire burning in my brain.

I'm quick to turn her and push her down over the edge of the bed, gripping the blonde hair around my fist. I waste no time taking my dick in my hand and zeroing in. I sink balls deep with a sigh. I block out her squeal of happiness and it's no holds barred.

My head falls back as I set a punishing rhythm, slamming into her rapidly. It feels good, really good. My mind conjures up a picture of perfect pale skin, long brown hair around my fist and a bottom lip trapped between her teeth as she looks over her shoulder at me.

"Fuck!" I yell and double my efforts, my balls slapping against her in an effort to rid her from my mind. Every sigh and whimper from the body beneath me echoes in my mind as HER voice. You've got to be kidding me!

My hands grip hips, growling as I thrust brutally. Behind my closed eyelids, I see Bella beneath me, small hands gripping the sheets and pushing back into my thrusts. I hear whispered words telling me how fucking good it feels, begging me to fuck her harder. I gasp in shock to feel my cock jerk and spurt. I push hard and grip skin hard enough to bruise.

I look at the clock on the bedside table. Four fucking minutes…are you fucking kidding me? I haven't blown in four minutes since I was 13! This fucking girl is messing with my head. Does Pops know what he's asking me to do? I've spent an afternoon with this girl and she's got me all turned around. This is going to end badly.

I pull out and slap her ass. "Get out." I growl, collapsing on the bed with a grunt and let the whiskey take over as my eyes slide closed.

(Bella's POV)

The only sound in the room is paper turning as my eyes rivet, taking in every black word on the pages. The sound of the grandfather clock in the foyer chiming startles me as my eyes lift to the clock on the wall. It's fucking midnight. I've sat here for hours, reading files on each and every member of the SOC.

My eyes again go back to the open file on Dad's desk and see that face, staring back at me as it has for many hours. I rub my eyes and focus on the page in front of me, currently reading the exploits of one Emmett "Meat" Cullen. The face in the mug shot doesn't fit the crimes. For fuck's sake, the boy has dimples. If it weren't for the black ink scrawling from the neck of his t-shirt in the photo, you would think he's the All-American boy. That and the face that he has a penchant for stealing and violence. I huff in exasperation, pulling open the file of Esme Cullen. I study the picture. She's beautiful. Soft eyes and serious expression with highlighted streaks of blonde through her light brown hair and I can see the black ink on her chest teasing above the name board but I can't make out the design. I read the rap sheet depicting charges of assault on another woman with a crescent wrench and possession of marijuana, less than a dime bag. I look closely at the picture, this is Ex's mother. I wonder how close they are. She obviously isn't the type to have chocolate chip cookies and milk waiting when you get home from school, but something about her face shows me that she could be.

I look over Edward's life; played out in police files all around me and it shakes me. Was his life ever normal? Was he a normal kid, like I was or was this life? A life of people floating in and out between jail times. For fuck's sake, he was born when his father was serving time for murder. If Carlisle's lawyer hadn't have found a loophole that crumbled the case, Edward may still have never known his father.

I pull out a battered, but thick manila envelope, reaching inside to pull out the contents and there are dozens upon dozens of what look like surveillance photos. My breath catches and my fingers shake as I look upon a shirtless EX harmlessly playing basketball on the parking lot of the garage. The jeans are grease-stained and hanging dangerously low. Low enough that the deep V of his abs catch my eye, along with that sinfully tempting little trail of dark hair beneath his bellybutton that disappears beneath the waist of the denim.

Several pictures further, stall my breath to see the extent of the black ink swirling into the skin of his back. The exact detail of what looks like a family crest is blurred by the obvious distance of the photographer, but I make out what looks like twin lions and maybe shamrocks? The words curved above and below, although, are crystal clear. "Sons of Cullen" is emblazoned in distinct dark ink. The other designs swirling down his right arm from shoulder to near wrist while intricate and striking pale in comparison to the startling statement covering 80% of his back.

The next picture is somewhat blurred, as if taken in a hurry as Edward looks over his shoulder toward the photographer. The sheer defiance in his face is evident in clenched jaw and narrowed eyes. I stare at that face for who knows how long until the rattle of the doorknob in the kitchen. Hells Bells, Charlie!

I fling from the chair, still clutching the photo of Edward shirtless as I search frantically around the room, satisfied that it just looks tidied as I flip out the light and head toward the hallway. I look down at my hand and hurriedly fold the picture and stuff it in the back waistband of my jeans, adjusting my shirt to cover it as I hear the tell-tale popping of a top on the beer.

Charlie stands in full uniform at the refrigerator, chugging the brew so fast I swear his Adam's apple is having an epileptic fit.

"Bad night, Pop?" I say, propping myself up in the doorway.

"Christ, that woman is the spawn of Satan with a mouth like a trucker. It'll be a miracle if I don't strangle her by the end of the week." Charlie grumbles as he clears his throat.

"So you like her? Super duper. Night, Dad." I say as I tuck tail and fucking bolt up the stairs. I hear his grumble of "Nice talking to you, daughter o' mine." in deadpan sarcasm as I shut my bedroom door.

I immediately reach for the photo, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles in the paper as my fingers ghost over his frame, forever captured in the picture. Quickly, I stash it in the drawer of my bedside table and get ready for bed, suddenly exhausted from the day.

I lay in the dark for who the fuck knows how long, tossing and turning, seeing that face every time I close my eyes, but I see it in 3D fucking Technicolor. In my mind, I watch with riveted interest one bead of sweet rolling down those abs and tangling in that treasure trail. With a muttered curse, I jerk off my panties and reach blindly for the second drawer of my nightstand extracting BBTFW (Blue Billy the Fake Willy) and flip him on, satisfied that I don't have to go rooting around the house with my dad awake to find "C" batteries for my…fuck, I don't know what I'd make up to tell Charlie I need them for. My TV remote won't quite cut it.

I reach for the lube and hesitate, reaching a hand down to 'test the waters'. Fuck me; I'm surprised I'm not slipping off the damn sheets. Exxon-Mobile has nothing on me. I relax back on the pillow and flip on my friend.

"No, pussyfooting around tonight, my friend. I need this quick and dirty." I whisper as I put Billy to good use, sliding it inside me to the hilt.

"Fuck me running." I mutter, in a halted sigh, already feeling the coil of release in my belly reaching out and making my toes curl.

That was the first night a biker got me off.