**Disclaimer: All Twilight characters are the property of Stephenie Meyer. Only the words herein are the property of ddpjclaf 2013. Please do not copy, translate, or repost without express written permission.**
Well, this is VERY different for me. For 1, it's not The Mortal Instruments (I KNOW!). For 2, it's first person, present. I don't write this, I don't write LIKE this, but fanfiction has always been a way for me to stretch my wings and test my comfort zone as a writer, so, here I go!
I have no idea where this is going to lead, if anywhere. I'm just writing. You can follow along if you'd like and see where this might go, or not. But if you do, well, hopefully we'll have fun!
This is unbeta'd for now, and it's starting off with short, drabbly kind of chapters. And yes, it's Jasper and Bella, because, well, I have a thing for Jasper.
(Read, Smut, well, you asked for it!)
Chapter One: Reemergence
I shouldn't look at him.
It's been four years, and I still shouldn't.
My eyes flicker across the pool hall once more, return to the drink in my hand, and back to him again. I can't believe he's here. Why is he here?
He's bent over the table, his fingers loose on the end of the pool stick, his brows knitted together in concentration under the cowboy hat on his head. His jeans fit just as perfectly as they always did, but his white t-shirt is tighter, unable to conform exactly as it had to his newer, more muscular body. The dog tags are new and dangle from his neck, catching the low bar lights as they twist and turn. He hasn't seen me, and I'm glad, because I don't know if I can handle it if he does.
His fingers tighten on the end of the pool stick, and I fight against the urge to close my eyes, to remember how those fingers felt on my skin, how his blond locks stuck to his head when he took that same hat off, how it looked hanging on my wall. God, stop it, Bella, stop it.
"So, Jasper's back, I see."
I jump a little at the sound of Rosalie's voice. Turning back to the bar, I shrug and look back down at my drink, hopefully hiding the heat spreading across my cheeks. No one knows about what happened that night between Jasper Whitlock and me. And no one is going to. "Yeah. I guess so."
Was that nonchalant? I hope so. It's what I was going for.
Rosalie tosses the bar towel down on the wooden counter and leans forward on her elbows. "Alice's gonna go ape-shit when she hears."
I finally look up and frown. "Why would Alice care? She dumped him years ago."
Rosalie snorts. "She did that shit just to make him change his mind about leaving. God," she laughs, "and you called yourself her best friend?"
I sway back just slightly. I don't want to be reminded of what I called myself back then. My friendship with Alice has simmered down some since high school—as many relationships like that do—but we are still friends. Although, I'm not sure we would be if she ever knew. "She didn't say anything to me. Not then, and not any time after that. I thought she was into James and that's why she dropped Jasper."
"James? Jesus, IzzyB, how dense are you?" She slings the towel back over her shoulder and pours refills for a couple of guys down the bar, spilling some onto the wood. When she returns, she wipes up her mess and shakes her head. "You had to have known it was all about him enlisting."
I swallow hard. Yeah. I probably should have, but . . . "I didn't. I swear."
"Well," Rosalie tilts her chin toward another patron asking for a drink and gathers a glass to pour it. "We all know Alice is a bit of a nutcracker. Always was, always will be. I think she thought dumping him was the only way to make him stay." Rosalie slides the drink down the bar. "Obviously that didn't work out so well."
"Obviously not," I mutter, remembering vividly the day Jasper left for boot camp, a single bag slung over his shoulder, head recently shaved by the town barber, the anticipation twinkling in his gaze as he peered over his shoulder at the group of us who came to see him off. Everyone around me had hooted and hollered as the bus started to move, but I didn't say a word, because I was watching him watch me. I was watching his eyes change from confident, excited, and sure, to doubt, a slight bit of fear, and a whole lot of "what if".
A loud cheer rises up in the back of the bar, and I turn toward it without thinking. Rosalie's brother, Edward, is slapping Jasper on the back, and Jasper is smiling. For some reason, that makes me lose my breath. I lower my gaze to catch it and then lift it again, but when I do, his eyes are on me, and God, they're the same.
The same as they were that night.
The same as they were after I'd tried my best to comfort him after Alice had shattered his heart.
The same as they were when I'd leaned in and kissed him.
And I could see it all again, hear it, feel it.
"What was that for?" Jasper had asked when I pulled away, stunned. Mortified.
"I—I—I—. I'm—I'm sorry." I tried to look away, but he'd stopped me by grabbing my chin. His fingers were rough, calloused from working on his father's ranch, but, in that moment, they'd made me shiver unlike anyone's ever had.
"Don't," he said, his voice soft and trembling. "Don't look away. Tell me. What was that for?"
"Jasper . . ."
"Please, Bella Mia, what was that for?"
My breath hitched at the name. Jasper always called me "Bella Mia", instead of my real name, Bella Marie. It had always been in a playful, friendly way, and it was much better than Bella Smella, which is what Edward had called me in grade school, so I'd never really given it a second thought. But this time, this time it was . . . different, more.
He moved in closer then, his mouth only inches from mine, his breath all over my skin, seeping inside, changing things, changing me. Making me feel things I shouldn't have felt, making me want things I shouldn't have wanted—especially from a friend, a friend who was my best friend's very recent ex.
"I don't know," I whispered, ashamed of what I'd done, ashamed of what I felt building inside me. "I just . . . I wanted . . . I don't know."
Jasper was silent, too silent, and when I looked up, it had been his eyes that had made me kiss him again.
As I stare across the room now, his eyes are the same: deep, questioning, and filled with even more "what ifs".
He slowly removes his hat and brings it down to his stomach, sliding his long, slender fingers along the rim, like he always used to. His blond hair is matted and a little sweaty, just how I knew it would be, and even now, after four long years, seeing him like that still makes my stomach squirm. Because I remember how he looked back then, standing inside the door frame to my room, holding his hat just like that, only a tall, lean silhouette against the back-lit hall.
I recall how hard my heart beat as I crossed the shaggy carpet toward him, how I'd looked up into his unsure gaze, how I'd gently taken the hat from his shaky fingers, and how I'd placed it with my own on the hook on my wall.
I can still recollect how the buttons of his shirt pressed almost painfully into my palm as I fisted the material and dragged him inside, and how warm his hand had been when he'd cupped the side of my neck, as I removed the material from his body.
But most of all, I remember how it had felt to be with him that way—a way neither of us had ever thought of being together before.
I remember everything about that night. All the wrong, and all the right.
And I remember why no one can ever know.
I clear my throat and turn back to face Rosalie. She's watching me with suspicion, and I know if she pays any closer attention, she'll figure it all out. I jump down from the stool and throw some money onto the bar. "Well, I should get back to the old grind."
Rosalie rolls her eyes. "IzzyB, you have no grind. You're an unemployed English major living in my basement. You can stay longer. Really, what will it hurt?"
She has no idea. I scrunch my nose and gather my bag. I need to leave. "I shouldn't—"
The familiar voice calling my name makes my eyes close involuntarily, and I hear it again, only from years ago.
"Bella Mia, we shouldn't," he said, but his hands were still pulling up my shirt, his mouth still sucking at my neck, his hips still moving against mine. He lowered his head and nipped along my collarbone. "God, we shouldn't."
"I know," I said. My head fell back of its own accord, and my hands plunged into his hair, holding him there, right there.
"What are we doing?" he panted against my skin. "What are we doing?"
"I don't know." I tugged at him, because I didn't know, but I couldn't stop. "We . . . we should . . . stop?" It was a question because I didn't know. I didn't know . . .
Jasper nodded his head yes, but he pushed me harder into the wall anyway, his mouth descending on mine in a way it hadn't before. In a way no ones had before. I shouldn't have been kissing him like that. I shouldn't have been touching him like that. He was my friend, my best friend's ex. It was girl code. It was forbidden. But I couldn't think with his hands on me, with his mouth on me, with his tongue stroking mine. I couldn't think. I couldn't breathe. And then he lifted me up, my legs going around his waist, and then I was on my bed.
"Tell me to stop," he begged, pleaded. "Please."
But I didn't answer. I couldn't. And then my nails were in his back, and he was groaning my name, and our pants were gone, and he was inside me, and I couldn't. Breathe.
Oh God, I couldn't breathe.
And when he says my name again now, I can't breathe still.
I shouldn't have looked at him then. I shouldn't have comforted him. I shouldn't have kissed him. But I did.
And I shouldn't answer him now. I shouldn't turn around. I shouldn't look at him again.
But I do.
So . . . drabbly, yeah? This is just something I'm playing around with. Hope you enjoyed this installment. :)