Disclaimer: If I didn't own it last night then chances are I don't own it now. What I do own is a burning desire to head down to Adam and Eve and try on a pair of red patent leather fuck-me-now-while-I-still-have-a-pulse-and-a-little-estrogen-left-boots. (Purely for research purposes, of course.)

Thank you sunflowerfran3759 for being an awesome beta!

Positions, Inc

Chapter Four: Supper Time and Tangled Tales

Part Two

'Little Bella from play group'

What the actual fuck?

"Oh you remember her, silly; she had those long pig-tails and her teeth were a little bucky." At this Esme set her mouth like a beaver. I tried to stifle a laugh; my mother has the best way of making herself look exactly like a cartoon character. Woman should have been an actress.

"Oh come on Edward, I know you remember her… she pushed that crayon up your nose one time and your poor father had to leave work early so he could remove it."

Bingo!

The olfactory memory of that particular, childhood trauma resurfaced with a vengeance. I can still smell the wax.

Bleh.

Wait ... that was Bootsie? Christ, first she tried to snuff me out with a red crayon as a kid and since that didn't work out she's back in town trying to kill me with her red, fuck-me-now-or-I'll-stab-you-in-the-balls-I-mean-testicles-sorry-I-don't-mean-to-be-vulgar, boots? I knew that chick was scary the minute I laid eyes on her and now I know why. She's the bad-seed child all grown up!

"Well of course that was only because you kissed her in the tree house. Oh, God-that was hysterical! The way that child carried on. Renee and I laughed so hard we didn't even notice you weren't breathing until your lips started turning blue," Esme cackled.

A vague memory of trying to kiss a little girl with big brown eyes that reminded me of Bambi struck me dumb. Oh, Christ; I'd completely forgotten all about that! I'm also shocked that my brothers didn't taunt and tease me about that kiss too; it must have happened the summer they were at Boy Scout camp. So Bella was my first kiss and not Jessica? I'm not sure which was worse; suffocation by Crayola or being choked to near death from Bazooka Joe. Either way, at least they were both memorable as far as first kisses go.

"Anyway, they moved away a few weeks later and I lost touch with Renee after that."

"It's just as well Esme. I don't think that woman was a good influence on you or the rest of the mothers in that play group. Wasn't she the one who suggested it was time to get silly for cocktails after you put the kids down for a nap? I came home to find ten woman passed out in my den with my medical books all opened to Sexual Health, with really graphic notes and illustrations scribbled in the margins. And there were kids running amuck all over the place," my father informed me with a grin.

Little Bella from play group and her wild mother.

Something about this news made me want to turn to my folks and say in a sinister voice: They're baaaack. But I kept my trap shut and decided if I was going to pull off my new position at Positions, Inc without the Rents knowing what I was up to, that I'd better keep it that way.

*PINC*

Later that night after I dragged my tired ass into bed, I found myself reliving the conversation I had with Bella after our sprawl on the floor.

"And to make matters worse I can't even get up because my water bra just burst and it'll look like I'm lactating or something."

I mean, how exactly does one respond to this kind of comment? It's not like I'm some sensitive little woman whose gonna cluck and tsk over this news and offer to get my sweater out of my car so she won't be embarrassed and all. I'm a guy-I wanted to see what the hell she was talking about. Freaking water bra … what the hell is that? It's not like I have sisters you know, and I certainly can't imagine my mother sporting anything other than the industrial, white, boob covers with the six hooks and closures that she favors. I honestly don't know how my old man manages those things.

Ugh … I erased that image from my memory banks, pronto.

Oh, and before you judge, the only reason I know what kind of bras Ole Esme favors is because she makes me do all the laundry since my unexpected return from Dartmouth.

Make sure you put my lingerie on the delicate cycle Edward, and remember to sort them first. You washed my good, Bali Bra with your jeans last week and now its tattle tale gray.

I shuddered under my covers, and not in a good way, if you get my drift. I banished all thoughts of Esme's underwear from my mind and returned to thoughts about water bras and chocolate-eyed girls who do their own laundry.

After Bella convinced me to close my eyes so she could get up and change into something less leaky, we decided to head over to the diner for a cup of coffee. (Yes, of course I peaked … what the hell did you expect? I told you I'm a guy and God didn't bless me with these extra long eyelashes and the genius IQ for nothing. I have the art of parting the curtains down to a science, and she never noticed a thing.) Unfortunately for me she was lightening quick and raced to the backroom and returned wearing a Phoenix University hoodie and a pair of chucks. But I did notice that her jeans were filled out nicely in the back and she caught me noticing that too; she pulled the hoodie over her backside with a huff. Drat …foiled again! I wondered if her butt was as round as it looked; after all, everything else about her was a fake. I mean, she could be wearing one of those Frederick of Hollywood fake asses for all I know. I decided I would find away to get to the bottom of that potential mystery as soon as fate offered me the chance.

Once we entered the diner and sat down at a booth in the back, I had the opportunity to finally check her out more fully. With her hairpiece gone, I noticed that her hair was still quite long, but it was fine and silky. Really silky; my fingers itched to run my hands through it. Obviously that would be completely inappropriate, right? I mean I'm not the best at judging those sorts of things on account of the fact that I probably have a touch of Asperger's Syndrome and sometimes miss social cues. So instead of touching her hair, I raked my fingers through my own; which I do a lot anyway on account of the fact that in addition to all my other conditions I also might be slightly OCD. It's true; I do have all these maladies and conditions even though none of them have been officially documented- unless you consider Doctor Google a professional psychologist. My mother claims that I am somewhat of a hypochondriac and she is probably right, because with all the other problems I have, it wouldn't surprise me if hypochondria weren't in the mix.

But that's another story.

I stared at her mouth the whole time she was talking; her lips were full and pink even after she had removed all traces of the red lip gloss she had been wearing when I first went into the shop. I could barely concentrate on what she was blathering about, if I am to be honest. And she really did blather; this chick has mad, oral communication skills, let me tell you. Her mouth doesn't stop moving for one second.

"And I suck at math and don't have a clue on how I'm going to figure out all the accounting and bookkeeping shit, either. Even though my mother is a scatterbrain, she's really good at math and she was the one who was supposed to take care of that …"

I looked up at her and watched in fascination as her sepia, colored eyes flooded with tears, and before I could stop myself I found my finger reach out to swipe the tear that ran down her cheek.

"Ow!" We both cried out; as a shock of electricity arced between her cheek and my finger. I mumbled that I was sorry and reached over to the ancient, napkin container that has been sitting on this booth since 1959, and grabbed a few napkins and handed them to her. She wiped her tears and blew her nose rather loudly, and mumbled, "S'ok…"

I sat back in my seat and pursed my lips in consideration.

"Listen," I said, "Maybe I can help you out with that kind of stuff. I'm really good with crunching numbers and I'm majoring in finance at Dartmouth."

"Dartmouth? Isn't that in Vermont?" I told her that it was technically in New Hampshire but on the Vermont border. Of course that conversation segued into the reason I'm not skiing my way to class instead of jumping puddles in Forks. I found myself surprised that I wanted this strange girl with the leaky bras and fuck me boots to know why, which was really weird because I didn't want anyone in this shit-hole town to know about my fraternity brother's prank that went horribly awry. But for some odd reason I felt compelled to tell Bella the truth; I wanted her to know me.

Between the refills of what is possibly the shittiest coffee ever made from one hundred percent, pure, Arabica beans, and what was possibly the weirdest conversation I've ever had, I was offered a job at Positions, Inc.

I also discovered three more things:

One: Isabella Swan might be a crazy, Chatty Cathy with diarrhea of the mouth, but she's also a really good listener. I'm usually a fidgety Frank who shreds napkins and fiddles with the shakers when I'm at the table, but something about her eyes and her velvety voice soothed me. It's like, the more wired she got, the calmer I became. And the funny thing is, I seemed to have the same effect on her.

Two: When she got hot and took off her hoodie, I found out that the boobs she was hiding underneath that water bra didn't actually need H20 to keep them buoyant; they bobbed quite nicely under her blue tank top all on their own.

Three: Bella Swan is one of the most interesting girls I have ever met, with or without those red fuck-me-now-before-I-grow-my-own-dick- and-just-do-it-myself-boots.

Even if she did try to kill me

Twice.

And with those thoughts swimming in my head, I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep. I dreamed about a little girl with buck teeth chasing me through the forest with a red crayon in her hand. I kept running and running until I couldn't run anymore! I frantically climbed up a tree as fast as I could, but she came up after me, two limbs at a time. Only now she wasn't a beaver-toothed, little girl.

No indeed.

In her place was a bat-shit, crazy, brown-eyed woman, wearing a pair of red, patent leather,yes-I-am-going-to-fuck-you-until-the-bough-breaks-boots.

And oddly enough, it wasn't a nightmare.

It was quite possibly the best dream I ever had.

A/N: And there you have it! So, just how long do you think it will be before Carlisle and Ole Esme catch on that their son is working at a sex shop? Gasp! As at least one reviewer pointed out, it is a small town. Hmm…

Thank you so much for your wonderful reviews and support. Nothing tickles me more than to know someone out there in the world is reading this story!