Beta- StacyO72 - She managed to pull herself away from #DiorRob long enough to read through this. Any mistakes are completely because of Robert Pattinson's hotness. How can anyone remember grammar rules when that video is playing on repeat?
Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. No copyright infringement is intended.
Outtake: The Masshole and the Hippie Chick
A/N I felt the need to celebrate hitting 500 reviews, which is amazing and I can't thank you all enough so I decided to celebrate by posting an outtake.
Due to a variety of things that happened over the last month, this took a lot longer than I anticipated.
Most of you know what happened with my TLS Angst contest entry, so I won't go into it again. If you don't know, just click on my name, and take a look at my other story, Irrevocable Trust, that is now posted.
In other news, we are moving forward with the house stuff. I think we were on buyer no. 2 the last time I posted. That fell apart so we're up to buyer no. 3 and we've also found a house. The next six weeks or so before we move should be insane, especially when you add in work and social obligations too.
Anyway, thank you for your patience. For those wanting more of Doc's backstory, here is an outtake of Carlisle and Esme's first meeting in a club somewhere near Gloucester, Massachusetts in the summer of 1990. This might seem familiar if you're of a certain age (mine). For others, you might need to google things like Milli Vanilli and Zima and then remind me that I'm old enough to be your mother, or even older than your actual mother. (cough*Lellabeth*cough)
There is a Spotify playlist for this chapter, as well as most of the other chapters too. The link for this one is http(colon)/ t.co /EJgVpSI2QG
PM me if it doesn't work or if you want the other playlists.
Masshole = Asshole from Massachusetts
The pounding opening beat of a re-mix of Girl You Know It's True reverberates through the smoky room. The crowd cheers and begins to call back to each other: first "Milli" then "Vanilli". Strobe lights illuminate dancers seemingly frozen in place for a brief moment in time. Bodies bump and grind as girls dressed in wasp waist mini-skirts and cut-off tops entice guys in acid wash jeans and muscle shirts. Everywhere I turn I see big hoop earrings under long spiral perms, and gold chains beneath fade-aways, or worse, mullets. The air is rank with the fetid mixture of cigarettes, alcohol, Drakkar Noir, Dior Poison and sweat. This is soooo not my scene.
I watch my two remaining travel companions, Maggie and Siobhan, dance with a couple of Massholes they picked up at the bar. I wish Ray was still with us but she met someone last week when we were on Nantucket and decided to stay with him. Ray was a little flaky but at least we had similar tastes in music. If she were here we could dump this meat market and find a nice indie bar whose idea of dance music is more Depeche Mode/Pet Shop Boys and less Bell Biv DeVoe/Vanilla Ice. I sigh before I take another sip of my drink. There are tons of indie bars in Boston but we're outside the city, in the no man's land between it and the New Hampshire border, because one of the girls wants to visit Salem tomorrow. As I turn my head away from the dance floor, I see a guy with short blonde hair approaching me. He's more than just handsome; he's got matinee idol looks. Everything about him is chiseled perfection. Unfortunately, it's obvious from his swagger that he's well aware of it. He stops in front of my table and gives me a mega-watt smile.
"Hey, I'm Carlisle. Can I buy you another Zima?"
I take a closer look at him. He's dressed in faded jeans that look authentically ripped rather than the kind guys buy at Structure, and a heather grey to-shirt with a small boat embroidered in the left corner, above his heart. His clothes fit well. He has a nice body, nice tan, and bright blue eyes set in a face that would be almost too pretty for a man if he didn't have such a masculine chin.
I glance down at my almost empty bottle of the clear malt beverage we had all ordered. It is supposed to be the big new thing but girly beer really isn't my style. I see this Carlisle guy is holding a bottle of authentic beer in his hand.
"Actually," I answer "I'll have what you're having."
He holds up the bottle. I recognize Paul Revere as the figure holding a pewter tankard at the center of the blue label.
"Are you sure? I'm drinking a Sammy lager. Most girls don't like a full-bodied beer."
He's got a thick Boston accent which somehow makes him even more attractive to me. I like the Northeast. Everyone talks fast and acts tough. It's so different from the polite mid-western manners of Ohio. I've never heard of a Sammy before but I know what I like in a beer.
"Yes," I respond. "Full-bodied is just what I'm looking for."
He smirks as his eyes rake over me, blatantly lingering too long on my chest.
"That's good. I always prefer full-bodied."
I reflect on my own appearance. I'm wearing a low-cut sleeveless black body suit under a floral tapestry vest and basic black mini skirt. I'm showing a bit more cleavage than usual but I'm not ashamed to give the girls a bit of air. Still, the way he looks at me makes me feel as though he can see right through the fabric. I should be offended but I'm not. Instead, I'm intrigued.
He sits down next to me and hails a passing waitress, asking her for two more. She leaves and he turns his ice blue eyes back to me as he graces me with another panty dropping smile.
"So what's your name?"
I hesitate. Usually, I introduce myself as Mimi in bars. It's easier for people to understand. I carefully pronounce my full name. "Esme."
He sits back in his chair; his legs sprawl out in front of him. "Esme? That's different. Family name?"
I nod, embarrassed that I didn't just go with Mimi. "My great-grandmother."
He smiles again and damn, he's got dimples. "Me too, I mean I was named Carlisle after my great-grandfather. I like Esme. It's unique and beautiful, just like you."
I roll my eyes. This guy is a piece of work, a hot piece of work, but still, I can't let him think I'll just fall all over him because of a few clichés.
"Too bad your pick-up lines aren't."
He widens his eyes in surprise for just a moment before he recovers his cool. "It's only a line when it's not true."
He winks as he takes a drink from his beer. He actually winked! I shake my head and against my better judgment, smile at his audacity. The waitress returns with my own beer, placing it in front of me as she removes the Zima. I take a sip of the beer, which is good, much more robust than the usual Bud Light. I glance down at the bottle and make note of the name, Samuel Adams Boston Lager. I see Carlisle take out a wad of money and I almost choke as I watch him unroll several hundred-dollar bills before finally getting to a twenty. The waitress has barely given him the change and walked away when I blurt out
"Are you a drug dealer?"
Carlisle gives me an incredulous look and laughs. "What?"
I feel my face redden. It was a stupid thing to say, as if he'd admit such a thing if it were true.
"Sorry, I'm just surprised you have so much cash on you."
He smiles widely. "Ah. I gotcha. Sorry, I'm just a commercial fisherman, nothing nefarious or glamorous."
He turns over the roll of bills before he puts it back in his pocket.
"I work for my father. Our boat landed this morning so you're looking at my pay for the last four days of work."
I exhale, relieved to know that he isn't some sort of criminal.
"Is that a summer job?"
"No. Full-time. I've been fishing almost my whole life. My dad owns a dragger. Do you know what that is?"
I shake my head. "I don't know anything about fishing," I confess.
Carlisle moves his chair closer to mine and spends the next few minutes explaining the different ways to catch fish. Much to my surprise, I'm actually fascinated as he describes his hometown of Gloucester and life at sea as a fisherman. I find out we're the same age but college was not something that interested him. He had spent his entire life preparing to be a commercial fisherman and he started working full-time as soon as he graduated from high school. The music continues to pulse and throb around us as I discover that MC Hammer and Vanilla Ice are far more palatable when there's a very cute, interesting guy sitting next to you. His smooth edge is still there but I can see the genuine spark in his eyes while he teaches me the distinction between gillnetting and trawling. I have no idea how much time passes, as we talk and drink and flirt. We flirt a lot. He has that natural charisma that makes you feel like you're the most special, most unique girl in the world, even though he's the one exuding all the charm. Eventually, last call is announced and a few minutes later the lights come back on. It feels much too soon.
I see my traveling companions approaching. They are both wrapped up in the guys they've been dancing with tonight.
"Hey Doc!" The one with the mullet and the Fu Manchu mustache calls out. He and Carlisle shake hands and it's apparent that these two are fishermen as well.
"Doc?" I ask, raising an eyebrow, when they are done greeting each other.
Before Carlisle can respond, the short, barrel-chested guy answers. "This fucker is the best damn cutter I've ever seen. He can fillet like six flounder in a minute. It's insane! He's like a damn brain surgeon with a knife."
I have no idea if that's good or not, but based on the guys' looks of awe, I'd guess it is. Honestly, I'm not sure I even know what kind of fish a flounder is.
Carlisle smirks at me as he holds his hands out in front of him. "I've been told I've got very skilled fingers."
I roll my eyes as we make our way towards the outside. "I bet."
This time he raises an eyebrow. "I'd be more than happy to prove it to you."
I wish I could say my body didn't react to his words but it did. Still, I carefully guarded my reaction so that Carlisle wouldn't realize the effect he has on me.
"Hey Doc, how you going to do that? We can't get any flounder this time of night," his other friend interjects.
" Liam's not the sharpest knife in the drawer."
Carlisle lightly hits him on the back of the head. I laugh and the mood between us lightens instantly.
"I'm starving!" The first guy pipes up, his heavy Massachusetts accent eliminating the R and the G. "Let's get some food."
He slings his arm around Maggie the girl with the curly red hair that she insists is natural even though it obviously isn't when compared to Siobhan's.
Thirty minutes later we sitting in a booth of an antiquated looking diner eating the best pastries I've ever had in my life. There are huge coffee rolls oozing cinnamon and donuts of every variety- frosted, powdered, glazed, and sprinkled.
Maggie and Joe are feeding each other pieces of coffee roll while Siobhan and the other guy, Liam, have bonded about Ireland and are now sucking face in the corner of the booth. I get the distinct feeling that we won't be making it to Salem in the morning.
I absent-mindedly lick the glaze off my fingers. I glance up and catch Carlisle gaping at me from across the small booth. I might take a second or five longer than necessary to finish swiping my tongue over my fingers. I smirk as I look down to grab another piece of donut with my right hand. Before I can, I feel someone grasp my left. My eyes flash up just as Carlisle's mouth encircles my index finger, gently sucking as his tongue sweeps over the digit. I do my best not to squirm as my body immediately responds to him but I know I've failed when he releases my fingers and smirks back at me.
"You missed a spot," he states in a low voice.
"You could have just handed me a napkin, " I try to keep my tone cool and neutral. He still has a hold on my hand and he is massaging it in such a way that I can only imagine what his fingers would feel like on other parts of my body. I abruptly pull my hand back over the worn Formica top of the table.
He chuckles. "What fun would that be?"
I roll my eyes. "I bet you know all about having fun."
He raises his eyebrows, surprised by the edge in my voice. "Doesn't everyone like to have fun?"
"Having fun anytime, anywhere is reckless. Some people only like to have fun with those they genuinely care about," I reply.
Carlisle raises his chin slightly in the direction of Siobhan and Liam who are gazing into each other's eyes. "Sometimes you need to be a little risky if you want to find that person."
I snort indelicately. "Sometimes, people don't care about the difference between Mr. Right and Mr. Right Now."
Carlisle fixes me with a penetrating gaze, as though he can see inside my head. "A person shouldn't dismiss Mr. Right just because he happens to be Mr. Right Now. Sometimes there is no difference between the two."
I pause, my reply that sometimes Mr. Right Now will say anything to convince someone they are Mr. Right is there on my tongue but I don't say it aloud. Instead, I merely shrug my shoulders.
Joe chooses this moment to ask Carlisle about their next fishing trip. I learn they will be leaving in just a few hours and returning in about three days' time. Much to my shock, Maggie and Siobhan are agreeing to meet them in a bar up in Gloucester when they dock. We finish our food and head outside to the gravel parking lot. The three of us are at the end of our adventure, having left Amherst behind after graduation. We started out, four including Ray, in the York Beach section of Maine and traveled around through New Hampshire, Vermont, the Berkshires, Connecticut, Rhode Island then finally the Cape, the Islands, where Ray left us for that guy, and now here. It's been about six weeks and there's still plenty of summer left. I have no definite plans for afterwards. I've sent resumes to a few interior design firms in Boston and the other major cities in the Northeast. I'd love be close to my best friend Lizzie and her husband Ed but they live in New York City and I'm not sure if that's the right place for me. I don't want to return to small town Ohio either. I want someplace unique, progressive, and small enough where you aren't just another faceless, nameless body. I'm roused from my musings as Carlisle asks me if I'll also be at the bar in Gloucester.
He's standing too close to me, leaning in with a look on his face that gives me tingles in certain places. I try to answer but he's brushing my hair away from my face with the back of his hand and I can't remember how to speak. So instead, I nod, I try to act nonchalant. I take a small step back and clear my throat.
"Well, obviously, it's not like I have a choice. Where they go, I go."
"So if we can get them on board for the trip, you'll come too?" He grins, looking like the proverbial cat that caught the canary.
I whip my head towards Maggie and Siobhan, who are paying me no attention, both involved with their respective love interests. Panic shoots through my belly.
"We aren't allowed on the boat, are we? I mean, isn't there some sort of training or something we'd need; an insurance requirement, maybe swimming lessons?"
Carlisle laughs. He looks younger than his age at this moment and I realize he is teasing me. I can suddenly picture him as a Mark Twain character putting a frog down a girl's back or maybe dipping her hair in an inkwell.
"You ass!" I swat him on the arm. I try to ignore how hard his biceps are but still, I know. I let my hand linger there.
"You should see your face! You look terrified! It must be that you can't swim? It couldn't possibly be that you wouldn't want to spend three days with me?" Carlisle places his hand over mine and just like that we're holding hands. His thumb lightly massages my fingers.
"I can get from one end of the pool to the other just fine." I retort.
Carlisle raises an eyebrow. "Feet not touching the bottom?"
"I said I can swim!"
"No, Esme. You said you could get from one end to the other." He looks so cheeky and cute that I can't stay mad.
"O.k. I can dog paddle but I hate to put my face in. I get panicky when I'm underwater," I confess, dropping my head and watching as his thumb makes small circles over each knuckle. "When I was four an older cousin came up behind me and dunked me. I had my mouth open and I swallowed a ton of water. I thought I was going to drown. I can still remember that feeling of not being able to breathe, of my lungs filling with water instead of air. I've been terrified of drowning ever since. I don't feel comfortable being surrounded by water."
He nods and pulls me into his arms. "I want you to feel comfortable." He leans down and I feel his hand on my chin, tilting it up towards his face. He's so much taller than me. I raise myself up on my tiptoes to meet him. His lips slide softly over mine, once, twice in a gentle kiss as his hand moves from my chin to the back of my neck. He breaks the kiss leaning his forehead against mine. Our lips are separated by only a millimeter of space.
"O.k?" He asks; his breath warm against my mouth. I nod, again unable to remember how to speak. Our lips meet once more as his hand slides to the side of my neck. I can feel his thumb caress my cheek as I lose myself in the sensation of kissing him. My hands are pressed up against his chest, and I'm completely encircled in the safety of his arms. I can't help but sigh softly when I feel his tongue touch mine. He tastes of cinnamon and maybe a little beer and even just a hint of ocean. I never want to stop but some small sensible part of me realizes we are still standing in the diner parking lot of some hinterland Massachusetts town in that strange time of day between darkest night and earliest morning. We finally end the kiss. Carlisle steps back and looks down into my eyes, his hands on either side of my face.
"You'll come to Gloucester? We'll be back Tuesday. Meet us at the bar. Your friend has the address. Please?"
"Yes." I'm out of breath but I managed to whisper a reply.
"Promise me, Esme?" He asks. "Otherwise, I will take you onboard with me, even if I have to keep you in the fish hold."
He smirks and I giggle.
"Yuck! I promise. I'll wait for your ship to come in."
"It's a boat."
"Technically, it's a western rig otter trawler."
"Again, whatever." I roll my eyes.
He kisses me again, his lips firm against mine until Joe pulls him away.
"C'mon, boat's leaving in less than two hours."
I watch as the other boys climb into a brand new cobalt blue convertible Corvette, leaving the driver's seat empty. I hadn't really paid attention on our way from the club to the diner.
"Aren't Vettes two-seaters?" I ask.
"Yep, don't worry, Liam's skinny enough to fit in the little space back there."
"Yeah, it's my car."
"You own that?" I point and my voice rises of its own accord.
"Yep, she's all mine. I'll take you for a drive when I get back, if you want."
I nod absentmindedly. "You're sure you're not a drug dealer?"
"Nope, just a boring fisherman," he laughs then kisses me again before he lowers his long body into the driver's seat.
"Wait for me Tuesday. I'll see you when we get into port."
I nod my head, suddenly worried. "You'll be o.k. out there?"
He smiles, completely relaxed. "Of course, I was born to be on the water. I'm a Gloucesterman."
He starts the car and backs out. "I swear, I'll be back soon, " He calls out before shifting the purring engine into drive.
I watch as he speeds down the road, suddenly aware that I will spend the next three days worried about someone I didn't know six hours ago.
A/N Follow me on Twitter: shelly_duran (2 underscores) and don't forget to leave me some love. Reviews make me feel like Esme when Carlisle kisses her. Feel free to pimp me like a Vegas whore if you like what you're reading.