Bad Blood by LadyExcalibur2010.pdf

Bad Blood by LadyExcalibur2010

http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6629039/1/

"Love and fear. Everything the father of a family says must inspire one or the

other." ~Joseph Joubert

~Bad Blood~

Edward Cullen was a man who liked order. He prized it in fact. He arranged his

life into neat little segments, exercising rigid control in all areas of his existence.

It was not that he wanted to control anyone else. No, the one he was most

desperate to control was himself. His world was centered around that truth.

So his life was arranged into tidy boxes into which he placed his days and nights,

his hours and minutes precisely planned and anticipated.

On Mondays he would arrive at the gym at precisely 6:15 in the morning. He

would work out for forty-five minutes, after which he would shower and change

into work clothes and head to work. Because he arrived a few minutes later than

his usual 7:07 arrival, Janice would already be at her desk. They would exchange

smiles and an overall impression of their weekends. After talking with her no less

than two minutes and no more than three, he would head to his desk and turn on

his computer.

On Tuesdays, he would have lunch at the diner that was two and a half blocks

from the office, indulging in a hamburger in French fries, an extravagance for

which he would have to run an extra two miles on Wednesday. He always ordered

the same thing; he always sat in the same booth (the one that had a small rip in

the seat precisely three inches from the edge). Midge was always his waitress

and she always asked what a handsome guy like him was doing eating alone.

Edward always gave her a playful and flirtatious smile in response. That the smile

was fake mattered to neither of them. The niceties must be observed.

On Wednesdays, he would go to the gym in the morning, leaving his house quite

early in order to complete his routine. He worked out for an hour and arrived at

the office right on schedule – between 7:05 and 7:07 - having allowed for

inconvenient traffic or inclement weather. In the evening, he would run five miles

instead of the three miles he normally ran on Saturday. If weather permitted, he

liked to run outside. It gave him time to think and appreciate the gifts of nature.

If the weather was foul, he would run on the treadmill. He always found that

slightly disconcerting somehow.

On Thursdays, he picked up his dry cleaning. He always left the house ten

minutes later than usual so that he could sync his arrival at the dry cleaners to

the time they opened. The woman who worked the counter was named Sharon.

He always said hello and asked her how her grandchildren were doing. Sharon

always commented on what a polite young man he was. He always blushed when

she said that, cursing his fair skin.

Fridays would see him at a bar. There were half a dozen bars that he frequented

on a rotating basis. His visits there had a precise and rigid schedule. After an

hour or two there, he would set his sights on a woman. He would then do his best

to charm her and persuade her to go to a hotel with him. It usually worked. The

woman he chose was always there with friends, and he always made sure to

introduce himself to those friends, giving them his name. "Hello, I'm Edward

Cullen. Pleased to meet you." The words were always exactly the same. His smile

was always charming. His actions were a precaution, a safety net that the women

never realized they needed. Then he would take the woman to a hotel where he

would check in using the same credit card. They would fuck – twice. Always

twice. Not once. Not three times. Twice. He wasn't into anything kinky. He didn't

need pain to orgasm, nor did he like to inflict it. If anything, his partners would

have said he was a kind and considerate lover, if somewhat remote. He never

slept there, but would tell the women that he had to get up early. He always left

her with a lingering kiss but the impression that he would never use the phone

numbers they invariably pressed upon him. Then he would go home and go to

bed after showering for fifteen minutes. He did not like to lie, so he would get up

early and go about his routine.

Every Saturday morning, he would take another run, just three miles – never half

a mile more or half mile less. He never deviated from his customary route – north

past the Miller's house, then west up toward the orchard and back home again.

Then he would go home, get showered and dressed, and spend the day cleaning

his house. He was neat, preferring tidiness in his surroundings as he did in his

dealings with the outside world. He was not so obsessed that he spent his

Saturdays with a bottle of bleach and a toothbrush cleaning his kitchen floor, but

he was organized and methodical. He brushed his hair with fifty strokes of his

brush every morning and night. He spent exactly six minutes brushing his teeth

and eight minutes washing and conditioning his hair. It took him five minutes to

shave. In all things, there must be order. That was his mantra, the guiding

principle of his life.

His aunt would call him every Saturday evening, somewhere between five and

six. They would talk for half an hour. Every week she expressed her love and

concern for him. Every week he placated her with empty words. She had done

her best, after all. And he was doing the best he could as well. He told her that he

loved her, because he did. She had been a boy's savior, and a man's lifeline.

Then they would hang up and he would fight the urge to weep. Always, he would

triumph over that need because tears represented weakness and an excess of

emotion. Those things were not for him.

On Sunday, if football was in season, he would have some guys from work over

to watch the game. If asked the men would have said they were good friends. If

asked, Edward would have said they were acquaintances with whom he was

friendly. While he liked sports, he never allowed himself much emotion when

watching the games. Control. It was all about control. Too much emotion was

both dangerous and unnecessary, so in all things he preferred moderation and

control. If football was not in season, he might have a barbeque for some people

from the office. No one would ever call him a loner, though in truth he was lonely.

For years, his life went on in this way. He wasn't happy, but neither was he

unhappy. He was content and that was all he asked. He felt a sense of

satisfaction in knowing what he had overcome. The beast that surely lived within

him had been firmly leashed and that was all that mattered. If he was not

particularly fulfilled, he was also not a danger to those around him, and that was

enough.

He was comfortable in his chosen path, knowing what each day held, being able

to predict the conversations he would have, the foods he would eat, where he

would be at different times during the day. The routine was his healing balm and

it helped him forget – for the most part.

Then the day came (it was a Thursday, and sometimes he would ponder that if it

had been a Wednesday he might have missed meeting her altogether and she

might have abandoned her quest) when his carefully ordered world was thrown

into chaos.

The knock on the door was both unexpected and unwelcome. Edward Cullen did

not like surprises, and nothing in his previous experiences had indicated that any

surprise could be pleasant. So he was already scowling when he opened the door.

He was never sure what he expected when he opened the door, but what he

found wasn't it.

She was petite, not dressed particularly well and probably around his age. Her

eyes were large and dark and intelligent behind her glasses, which gave her the

air of a librarian. Her brown hair was pulled back in to a ponytail and she had a

pen stuck behind one ear. In her hand was a steno pad and dangling from her

wrist was one of those little recorders that he had learned to despise long ago.

She blinked at him for a moment, as if surprised that he was actually home.

If it had been Wednesday, he would have already safely made his escape.

A tiny line appeared between her brows. "Mr. Cullen?" she asked. Her voice was

slightly husky, as if she had a cold perhaps. She licked her lips.

"Yes, I'm Mr. Cullen," he replied. His skin felt itchy now, too small for his body. It

was Thursday and he had to leave for the dry-cleaners soon.

"Edward Cullen?" she pressed.

"Yes," he answered with a frown, glancing at his watch. If this kept up too much

longer he would be late. He could not abide tardiness.

A relieved smile broke out on her face and she breathed out a gusty sigh. The

smile changed her face, he noticed. She was...well, she was pretty. Quite pretty

in fact, in a girl-next-door kind of way, but it was not Friday and they were not at

a bar and she had no friends to whom he could introduce himself. So he ignored

her girl-next-door looks. "Oh thank goodness, I was afraid I'd gotten it wrong."

"May I help you?" He looked at his watch pointedly and she took the hint.

"Uh yeah, I mean, yes, I hope so." She seemed flustered. Since he was feeling

the same way, he allowed himself a small twinge of satisfaction.

He quirked one eyebrow at her, urging her silently to come to the point already.

She began rummaging around in her bag, and then pulled free a piece of paper

triumphantly. "Are you the same Edward Cullen who graduated from Jacksonville

University?"

He frowned. "Yes." What could this possibly be leading up to? And why? If she

didn't come to the point, he'd arrive late at the dry-cleaners and that possibility

annoyed him.

Another smile from her, and this one was more uncertain. Her voice, when she

spoke, trembled a bit. "Are you the Edward Cullen who was once known as

Edward Masen II, son of the serial killer Edward Masen, Senior?"

He shut the door in her face and leaned against it, gasping for breath.

Control, Edward, he reminded himself. In all things, control. You are not subject

to whims of excess in anything. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It

didn't matter. He would say nothing. Confirm nothing. He would ignore her. She

would go away eventually. She had to.

After a long moment, he heard her footsteps leaving his porch and dared to peek

out in a gap between the curtains of the window. As she drove away, he found his

fist clenching and before he could stop it, he had punched a hole in the drywall

next to the door.

He stared at the hole, abashed and ashamed. This was not control. This was not

moderation. This was not temperance. This was...this was the first step onto a

path of destruction. This was the first rattling of the bars of the cage that held the

monster. He closed his eyes and shook his head. "I'm sorry, Mom. I'll do better.

I'll do better."

He felt something wet and warm on his cheek and wiped it away with a carefully

controlled motion.

Edward Cullen did not cry.

Edward Cullen did not like surprises.

It was a Thursday and he was supposed to be at the dry cleaners already. He was

late.

Chapter 2

"What was silent in the father speaks in the son, and often I found in the son the

unveiled secret of the father." ~Friedrich Nietzsche

~Bad Blood~

All day at work, Edward had been out of sorts. Even his co-workers had

commented on it, which only made his agitation worse. If others noticed, then he

had truly lost control. The woman who had broken the seal on his memories was

in his thoughts all day long. His thoughts were not complimentary.

Who did she think she was?

What purpose could be served by destroying his life? And why would she want to

do so? He didn't know her. She didn't know him. Her motives were a mystery.

Edward Cullen didn't like mysteries anymore than he liked surprises.

The whole situation was unacceptable.

Even though it was only Thursday, he had a strange compulsion to call his aunt.

That realization only served to disturb him further. Not only had the woman

disrupted his usual morning routine, she had ruined his day and now threatened

to upset his entire schedule. She had better hope that she did not encroach on

his privacy again. Of course, Edward did not allow himself to feel anger toward

the woman; it was more annoyance than anything else. Annoyance was a safe

and bland emotion. Annoyance did not flare into rage, not if one kept a tight rein

on it.

Edward Cullen kept a tight rein on everything.

So when he arrived home that night, the sight of her sitting on the porch steps

might have driven a lesser man to anger, but he merely sighed in resignation.

Clearly this woman had to be set straight in the most clear and concise and polite

terms possible.

She stood up when she saw him approach her, her expression tentative and

wary. Good.

"I just wanted to -"

He held up his hand. "My name is Edward Cullen," he reminded her softly.

Control. Moderation. "My father is Carlisle Cullen, my mother is Esme Cullen.

These facts are a matter of public record. That is all I have to say." All of that was

true; he had a birth certificate to prove it. It had been issued when he was

fourteen, when he had died and been reborn.

He brushed past her, intent on unlocking his front door and getting inside the

safe haven of his home. A place for everything and everything in its place. The

narrow road is the righteous road. I shall fear no evil. He repeated his soothing

litanies to himself over and over again in his head as he tried to get the lock

open.

For once, his key did not turn smoothly. It was her fault. His hands were shaking.

That was her fault too. He turned to glare at her. "Why don't you just go away?"

he asked in annoyance.

She blinked at him and then smiled slowly. "I don't have any place else to be,

and honestly, your story fascinates me. I need to know what..." Her shoulders

slumped and her words trailed off.

He huffed and turned away from her, jiggling the key in the lock. If that kept up,

he would be moved to cursing, and that betrayed an excess of emotion that

would not do. At last, he felt the lock release and heaved a sigh of relief. As he

slipped inside the door he turned and gave her a smug smile. "Then I feel very

sorry for you indeed."

He closed the door, engaging the lock with a satisfied snick of sound.

It took ten minutes for her steps to move off the porch. He found that interval of

time unacceptable and pondered calling the police. In the end, he decided against

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