Edward Cullen: Purse Snatcher

He Did It

Betaed by lisa89

Emmett

The pounding on the door became more persistent as the three of us looked at it like a bunch of fucking goobers. Edward looked just about ready to piss in his pants, and I was ready to follow suit. I'm too pretty for jail.

It didn't sound like Charlie at the door, which made me feel a little better. I'd only met the man once and he was huge. You'd think that he'd be the typical chief of police with a beer belly and mustache, but not fucking Charlie. He had no mustache, he was six foot two, with dark hair, dark eyes, and a fucking six pack. The one time I'd met him was at a car wash he and his deputies had organized for a family that had lost everything during a home invasion robbery.

Let me tell you, that car wash had raised a lot of money because of him. Most of the customers had been ladies, all looking for some one-on-one time with Charlie and his "weapon." Even though I was happy that it wasn't Charlie coming to arrest us, it also meant that the coppers behind that door did not know us personally.

Then again, with my rugged, handsome features and Jasper's cool sense of ease, we could totally talk our way out of this.

The voice demanded again, and I recognized it this time. All the color drained from my face, and I was pretty sure that my balls shriveled up. "I want my Mommy," I whimpered.

Bree.

I shook my head several times, looking at Jasper. He looked me like I was about to lose it, which I really was.

Fuck, she was going to kill me.

Bree and I had had one of those hate/hate relationships since the day we'd met. I'd used to pick on her, just the usual stuff: pull her hair, put chewing gum in her hair, stuff a garden snake in her panties – harmless.

Then she had moved away shortly before the eighth grade, and I'd never got around to apologizing. Not that I would anyway, because you know, it just wasn't my style.

Then two years ago at a local dive bar, I'd spotted a uniformed officer in one corner of the bar.

I had strutted my way over, because she'd been hot, and I'd thought she was a stripper. She'd just looked too fucking smoking to be the real thing. I'd grabbed a handful of her ass and asked for a private dance.

Of course, it had turned out to be Bree from school. After she'd slapped me in the face, she'd thrown her full drink at me. She'd probably had a thing for me. Why else would she be so damn defensive?

Later that night I'd found a car boot on my Silverado. With all the unpaid parking tickets I'd had, it had cost about eight hundred bucks to have it removed.

No one messed with my truck. My truck was like an extension of my dick, and you did not fuck with a good thing.

Messing with my truck had been the first act of war, and I'd been determined to win.

First, the pranks had been mild: a lewd picture on the windows on her cruiser (she really did have big titties, so I drew them on her car). She had countered it with removing my truck emblem and replacing it with a tiny chrome dick.

Once, I'd managed to switch the license plate frame of her cruiser with one that said Ms. Cop-A-Feel – Call for a Good Crime and her phone number.

What? She only got about a hundred calls before she changed it.

She'd gotten me back for that with a horn that made a kissing sound and said, "Chinga tu madre!"

Though that was how I'd met Rosalie, so technically I should have thanked her, but I didn't.