A/N This story is darker, with references to drug and alcohol use. I am not in any way encouraging or recommending use or abuse of anything mentioned. Substance abuse is dangerous and illegal! Edward is violent to an extent, please do not flame me for his "spankings", dirty mouth or any other thing you find terribly displeasing. I put this in as a warning, as I don't want you to read something you find distasteful. So proceed at your own risk peoples!

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight, Edward, etc… they are her babies; I just fuck with their lives like they are my own personal playthings.

Mase is a MarieCarro Vanadesse creation. She rocks my socks!

A Demon . . .

EPOV

When will the memories finally fade?

My eyes felt like they were on fire; my ears thumped to the beat of the techno pulsing in the background. The club crowd was amped; dancing to the music blaring out of the speakers. Bodies writhed against each other to the seductive throbbing, causing the room to look as if it were breathing. I stared blindly out from the private box section of Toxic, one of the only establishments open at this time of night. Port Angeles was not exactly a hot spot for socializing.

The privacy glass allowed me the freedom to finish my "business" without fear of retribution, for in here you could ask for pretty much anything under the sun: alcohol, the typical variety of substances. . . the list went on and on. It was beginning to bore me actually, attempting life as a rebel and outcast was highly overrated at the moment. I finished my shit and sniffed in deeply, ready to once again face the crush of intoxicated people.

If it weren't for the fact I wanted to find some companionship tonight, I would have just stayed safely confined to the limits of the private club; here I could become sloppy and stumble out the back door, or even get a sympathetic ride home, instead of exhibiting public displays of intoxication. But the memories of the betrayal taunted me tonight, more so than usual, driving me to release my tension into some unsuspecting female. Sex was a great avenue of release for me, even though my perverted tendencies keep me flying solo for the most part.

Maybe we'll get lucky tonight demon, my inner voice taunted. There are always fuckedup whores here willing to do anything we want.

Girls flocked to me like drunks to a bottle of whiskey. With all the attempts I made to make myself unattractive to the hoi polloi the more they seemed fascinated with me. A constant frown or snarl twisted my features into an animalistic grimace that most people found uncomfortable. I hid my painfully perfect features and lithe body underneath piercings and tattoos. I hated it; having a face like this. Girls would look, glance away, double-take, etc. Finally, after a bunch of giggling and whispering, one of these unseasoned babies would approach me and ask me some inane question. I knew where they were going before they could even speak, almost as if I could read their thoughts.

But I digress. There would be at least one simpering female I could easily fuck tonight, in excess. They all looked the same by now, cardboard cut outs of the same two stereotypes: punk or Goth. The "plastic" punks had short spikey hair, chains hanging from here or there on their bodies, piercings galore, tattoos of all shapes and sizes slashing across various portions of their bodies.

Even their clothing was generally typical: black jeans or baggy cargo pants, combat boots or chucks, and some old-school punk rock band T-shirt The other "cut-out" that frequented here were Goths: their classic "style" included dark old-fashioned vamipiristic clothing, black and red combinations, every one of them. Two separate stereo-types melded together with similar mentalities. Quite honestly, they were all really fucking depressing. Death, violence, drugs, hatred: all negative energy builders. And black eyeliner; what the fuck was it about black fucking eyeliner? Even guys wore that shit, and they weren't all gay, believe it or not.

I searched for some sliver of variety, something unique and real in any one of them. One girl stared at me openly, even went as far to stick her finger in her mouth and suck on it. A blatant invitation. But how would the evening progress once she realized I wasn't just going

to fuck her or stick my cock in her mouth, but do some other mildly twisted thing to her in the process? Would she be quite as eager? Most girls were not; no matter how punk or hard they appeared, once they felt the sting of the whip or the nip of my teeth they buckled, turning into simpering, whiny little bitches.

It was why I moved here into the wilds of Washington in the first place. Never had I fit into the norm. The environment I grew up in was stifling, and once I broke free from the bonds of my parents' containment, there was no holding me back. I was dead to them now, a ghost of a person they recalled memories from long ago. Unsatisfied with the deal life handed me, I rebelled; casting aside everyone who had cared about me to venture off alone into uncharted waters. Once broken and hollow, but now, well I suppose satisfied isn't a word I could use, but temporarily content would fit nicely. Content enough to drink myself into near oblivion night after night.

As I exited Hell,the member's club, I stretched languidly, extending my arms behind my back and looked around the crazed dance floor once again, trying to find some reason for this excursion into the mass of writhing bodies. Nothing extraordinary, but it was early yet. I leaned against the nearby bar and called out to Vicky, one of the bartenders in this fabulous establishment, for a shot of Patron. She rolled her eyes, but complied, sliding the shot glass across the bar dramatically. She was pretty enough, not my type however. Even if she were, I would do nothing; a man should never shit where he eats, get me? My reputation with the ladies was a bit twisted, since most girls only got a single sampling instead of a repeat performance. I didn't do this by habit. Once I discovered the little annoyances that come out when playing in the bedroom, I would simply not call any of them again.

"You're lucky I caught that," I said without looking at her, as I snatched the shot up before it hit the floor. "I despise alcohol abuse."

I scoffed, throwing back and finishing it with lightning speed. God that shit was good. A mild fire seared a hot path down my throat as my gaze wandered towards the entryway curtains, searching for something, anything to distract me tonight.

A petite girl brushed the curtain aside and stepped through, holding it back for her two friends as she crept inside. The gentle features of her face mixed with her pale skin tone made her look nearly angelic, her dark wavy hair flowed down her back like a pile of clouds caressing her face; she was incredibly distracting. "Keep them coming, Vik." I drawled, throwing the bartender a smirk, then returning to rest on my newest eye candy, as I continued to down shots like a pro. They effectively killed the aftertaste in my throat from the "indulgence" of a few minutes ago, which I could now feel increasing my heart-rate and making me antsy.

She was out of place here, this angelic doll, amidst tattooed punks and whores, all trying to fill their addiction to their personal types of heroin. She screamed fragility, as she stared in morbid fascination at the wave of people practically fucking each other on the dance floor. I gave up this kind of girl what seemed like a lifetime ago: elegant, regal, and sophisticated.

She blushed, turning to one of her companions, a somber looking guy with a mess of wavy blonde hair falling around his face, who whispered something angrily at her; probably something along the lines of "Let's get the hell out of here."

The girl with them looked like a human Barbie, if such a thing actually existed. Fake and plastic; I call them like I see them. She stood there next to the little angel looking ready to breathe fire on everyone who came too near, whilst tapping her foot in agitation; what a shrew. I wouldn't dirty my cock with the bitch, although she was quite a looker. The group stood out like sore thumbs in their designer clothes and haughty expressions. All three of them had to have walked into the wrong bar. This was not the place for debutants and their snooty friends. It was a rave club, for fucks sake!

I looked back to the bar behind me, surprised that there were no more shots coming. Vicky was staring at me expectantly in irritation; what the hell did I miss?

"I thought you hated alcohol abuse," she hissed, motioning towards the floor near my edge of the bar. On the ground by my feet were three shattered shot glasses and small puddles of tequila, wasted due to my strange fascination with this petite baby doll. Fuck! What a mess! "You know, I only keep this crap behind the bar for you. Nobody drinks that shit in a place like this, Mase."

"Just add them to my tab, Vik." I offered, trying to soothe her now ruffled feathers about my lack of attention to my drinking.

"Whatever," she sighed, ringing up the wasted shots decorating my Doc Martens. "You need anything else?" I shook my head and she wandered away, over to a bunch of drunken girls ordering Screaming Orgasms. They really didn't need them; their muscles were already lax, their frames tottering back and forth as if a breeze could knock them over. Two of them gawked openly at me, mouths hanging open. I half expected drool to come out. Fuck! How much more modification do I have to do to lose this "fuck me" face I was cursed with? I had no intention of looking the circus freak; my grandmother was probably spinning in her grave even now at my altered appearance, which to me was on the milder side.

May I offer my assistance ladies? I could put those mouths to more constructive use, if you like.

A dry laugh escaped my lips at my mental musing. I leaned back my head, my body supported on the bar behind it, eyes closed; enjoying the drunken whirling my overindulgence caused making me slightly dizzy. As I took in a deep breath of stale bar air, a new scent assaulted my nostrils, a soft sweet strawberry honey scent. I opened my eyes slowly, turning my head to rest upon the baby doll, quietly requesting a glass of wine.

She looked even more sweet and innocent up close; definitely in the wrong bar. I breathed in again, wondering if she tasted as good as she smelled. She stiffened, her eyes facing directly forward, as she paid for her drink and lowered her head shyly. Her full lips begged to be nibbled. I leaned in, possibly to do exactly that; determined to at least know her name. A blush slowly rose to her cheeks, indicating she had noticed me leering at her. She licked her lips nervously, and I imagined how hot it would feel if she were licking my dick instead. I stifled a groan. . .

"Hello baby girl," I drawled, getting her attention immediately. Her blush deepened and looked around nervously, probably for the two prep-school rejects she arrived with, before meeting my gaze. It crept from her cheeks, down her throat and settled into the gap between her pert breasts. Perfect hand size; fucking fabulous! This little debutant was dangerous. She blushed so easily; imagine her hue after bobbing up and down on my cock for a while. That thought sent blood rushing straight to the cock in question, causing it to throb and lengthen, attempting to rip right out of my pants towards her. Fuck!

Clear your head, demon. Girls like that don't like the games we like to play.

She was caviar and champagne while I was pizza and beer. Two complete opposites, perhaps that was what drew me to her. Urges to see how far that blush really went rushed through my mind, engorging my cock uncomfortably. I shook my head to remove the image of bending her over the bar and taking her from behind. So hot. So sexy.

So not gonna happen!

Find a neutral ground, you perverted fucktard!

I snapped my head up from staring boldly at her neckline to look into her eyes: innocent and trusting. They were like melted chocolate, warm and soft, like the rest of her features. A more romantic man would drown in them. "Lost?" I asked; raising one eyebrow as a grin began to creep across my face, determined to ruffle her feathers a bit.

"What?" she stammered; her voice as smooth as the honey essence she emitted. I obviously made her nervous. Her gaze darted around behind me once more, searching for that invisible backup that as of yet had not surfaced to defend her. "I. . . wanted a drink." She replied lamely, squaring her shoulders as if she expected a battle to ensue. "What did you just call me?" she queried, her face turning perplexed, her brows drawn together.

"Baby girl," I replied innocently, "It suits you, after all."

She snapped her head back in shock like I had smacked her. "Of all the male-chauvinist. . . My NAME is Isabella, not baby girl, thank you." She slammed her hand down on the bar, like she was a judge with a gavel.

Spirited little filly; I would love to master her and wipe that con- descending glare off of her face. Instead of screaming out her own name like now, I would have her screaming out mine in pleasure as she came, hard. I reached out and deftly raised her hand off the bar, then lifted it to my lips and placed a kiss in her palm, my eyes still fixated on her expressive face as I ran my tongue along the line across it. She stiffened and moved to yank her hand back. I held my grip, although gently, and bowed at her sarcastically.

"Well then, if you insist. Let's be formal, shall we? I'm Anthony Masen. My friends call me Mase, but you can call me whatever you want. Pleased to make your most pleasant acquaintance, baby girl."