Okay, so I decided that I just had to write a new story, since Christmas is the best time of the year, and I just couldn't let this opportunity pass. So here we are with our favorite couple!
First of, I'm going for one update in two days, but...well...we'll see how that goes.
Secondly, it won't be beta'd coz I just don't have the time for that now. I'm posting as I'm writing.
Thirdly... well there is no thirdly. I hope you like this short little story o'mine!
Disclaimer: No ownership of Twilight here.
18th December, 2012
"Honestly, it's like you have two left feet."
"Hey! Watch tha' mouth!" the senior instructor, Paul, shouts at me from across the room.
I hold my hands up in surrender. "Just stating the facts, Paul."
"Well, you betta' state them somewhay else, young lady. All this talk of two left feet has no place in my studio." He's a British with the cutest accent and a glare that can stop your heart cold. Honestly, never mess with the dancing guru.
"Right," I say, rolling my eyes at him and turning to the bimbo teenager. "And you, Amanda, have got to stop dancing like a spastic hen." I point my finger in her face. "Get those jazz hands right or get the hell out of hea'!" Well, the man rubs off on you, what can I say?
We jazz instructors are known for our shamelessness and straightforwardness. Shameless as in we wear almost next to nothing when we dance. And straightforwardness as in we won't hesitate to tell you just like it is; no sugar coating and no apologies.
The stupid girl with two left feet groans and stamps her foot. "This is so tough!"
This is what I hate – stiff robots coming in here and wasting our time. This is DancingDays, the best dance academy in all of USA, of course it's tough! I hold in my anger and give her one of my own death glares. "Next month, don't bother paying the fee."
Turning my back on her, I walk up to the front of the room near the wall of mirrors where Paul is doing his job immaculately as a jazz instructor – shouting at the students to get the pirouettes right or…well…get outta hea'. Yes, that is our patent dialogue.
"I'm gonna head out now. Got a flight to catch in precisely" – I look at the wall clock above him – "fifty minutes."
"All right." He nods, distracted. "Go to your hippy little town that nobody knows about," he snorts.
"Hey! Why you gotta be mean?" I hit him on the bicep, which I doubt he even feels. The man is built of iron, I swear.
He turns and smirks at me, and shouts out to the class of thirty-seven students, some of them older than both of us, "Guys! Say goodbye to Bella who's going over to Forks for Christmas."
There is a chorus of "Bye, Bella!" and "You're going to a what?"
I grit my teeth at Paul who's smirking like a smug bastard and turn to the class with a plastic smile. "It's a… little place in Washington."
Again, there's a chorus of "Ohhhh right, right" and I know that none of them could give less of a shit. Sure they love me, but really, who cares where Forks is?
Paul winks at me and gives me a goodbye hug. I shout a "Have a merry Christmas, you guys" to my class and gather my bag, making a quick escape from the studio. But not before pinching the ass of a girl who has her butt out while going down in a plie. Your butt's gotta be tucked in when you do a plie; everyone knows that!
I pull on my Uggs on the way to my car, and even though I'm sweating like a pig in my pink sports bra and barely-there shorts, I pull on my jacket to spare myself the weird looks. December in NYC is not a piece of cake, people.
I work as the junior instructor for the Intermediate batch here at DancingDays while Paul is the senior one. See, there are five batches according to difficulty level and you get promoted as you progress. There's Beginners first, Basic Elementary next, then Elementary, followed by Basic Intermediate and then Intermediate, after which you finally reach Advanced Intermediate and on passing that, you are qualified to be a senior instructor and get your own batch. I'm still stuck in AI, and though I'm a Company dancer, I still am a junior instructor.
Needless to say, I absolutely love my life right now. I get paid to dance here at DancingDays, and I study dance at NYU – does life get any better?
I already have my luggage packed and dumped in the back of my car. As I weave my way through New York, I gobble up two granola bars and one bottle of Gatorade to get some of my energy back, and when I stop at a red light, I pull on my jeans over the shorts and my hair in a high ponytail.
With still ten minutes to spare, I reach the airport and park my car in the lot. A friend of mine is going to pick it up later on. As I cart my suitcases to check-in, I see this really old, red, rustic Chevy truck. Who the fuck drives this shit anymore? Shouldn't this be in, like, a museum or something? Eh, must be some seventy-year-old, broke, poor guy.
I call my dad to inform him that I've reached the airport safe and sound. During the time I'm about to visit him, he goes on high Bella alert. Once he's assured that no one kidnapped me from the studio to the airport, he tells me to hurry up and be there. 'Cos I can speed up time you see. I really can. Oh no wait, that's what Charlie thinks I can do, always telling me to "just hurry up and be there already."
I deposit my luggage and buy Hello! magazine to read while lounging in the waiter's area. As soon as I sit my ass down with a sigh of now-I-can-relax, the speakers blare with my name.
"This is the last boarding call to Isabella Swan and Edward Cullen flying United flight number 3-7-1-4." And then there's a repeat, "This is the last boarding call to Isabella Swan and Edward Cullen flying United flight number 3-7-1-4."
WHAT? Last boarding call?!
I jump up from my seat in haste and look around me in panic. Which was the fucking gate? I run toward G-13. Yes, I think that was the one.
"Sorry, ma'am, your flight is boarding from F-13."
"Where the hell is that? Shit, I'll never make it in time!"
She gives me a bored expression and points to her right. "It's that way, ma'am."
And in the six minutes it takes me to push through the throng of people… I see my flight taking off right in front of my eyes.
"Noooo," I wail. "How the fuck will I get another ticket this close to Christmas?" I demand to no one, turning around and banging right into someone.
And then falling on my ass on the nasty, dirty airport floor.
"Perfect. Now I'll have the infected bacteria and germs crawling all over me," I mutter while getting up and brushing myself off.
"I'm so sorry! Are you o'right, Miss?" The "someone" I banged into happens to be this tall, handsome hunk who's wearing a wife beater and Bermudas. Now this, people, is what I call stupid. It's not like it's December or anything, of course not!
And because I have no filter, the first thing I blurt out is, "Are you a werewolf?"
The man looks appalled. And I want the earth to swallow me whole. "Excuse me?"
"Uh…" Cue nervous laugh. "I said it's so fucking cold."
He smirks at me. "I actually left my jacket and shoes at the security check."
Ew. I didn't notice he was without shoes as well.
"That's extremely unhygienic, you know. These floors are pretty disgusting," I say, pointing to his socked feet.
"Well, the flight that's now flown away was more important." Lo and behold, women! The gorgeous, extremely sexy stranger is a British. Oh the accent.
"Tell me about it," I grumble, trying very hard not to ogle.
He chuckles and extends his hand toward me. "Edward Cullen."
I try to give him a firm handshake like the strong, independent woman I am, but my breath hitches and my hurt goes boom, the moment he engulfs my cold hand in his warm one. "Bella Swan," I squeak out.
"Nice to meet you, Bella." The way my name rolls off his tongue… it's enough to give me a slight shiver. He bends down to my ear and whispers, "And for the record, dahling, no I'm not a werewolf."
Let me know your thoughts on this one. Should I continue? Who's with me?
Review down here to let me know.
Till the next time, lovelies!