Be Careful What You Wish For

Chapter Twenty-Seven

1 June woke up Jerry, her cameraman and editor, by knocking crisply on his motel room door. When he opened the door with a sour look on his pillow-marked face, his dark and curly hair all over the place, she held up the I'm-sorry-here's-my-peace-offering Styrofoam coffee cups and bag with cinnamon rolls, smiling brightly.

He grumbled something incoherent and let her inside. His way too huge pyjama pants swished over the carpeted floor. The t-shirt he was wearing was so gigantic, it made him look even more scrawny than he already was. He didn't like to feel confined in his sleep, he once told her when she observed that he looked like a kid who'd stolen daddy's jogging outfit in those things.

Five minutes later, they were sitting at the small-ish table, having their unhealthy but pretty awesome breakfast.

She granted him a few sips of his sugary, creamy coffee before starting her assault. "I went to the Quileute reservation early this morning."

He raised his thin eyebrows at her, scrutinised her with his usual woman-you-annoy-me scowl, and swallowed down a mouthful of cinnamon roll, before mumbling, "That's proof. This. You're a Terminator. They never let anything go, either...or sleep. Another thing your kind cannot comprehend, along with the human emotion we call love."

"I do sleep. I just don't hibernate like you do," she replied sunnily. "Be thankful I didn't drag you along, Mister Lopes. You're a lot better at filming stuff than I am, and I am undaunted by your eternal grumpiness."

"Not a morning person," he said, clearly faking the grouchiness like he always did, and took another sip of coffee, before tugging down on the sleeves of the dark-blue sweater he'd put on before settling down. "Get anything juicy?"

"Not a chance. Got chased off the land," she said, closing her well-manicured hands around her own Styrofoam cup carrying black, unsweetened coffee. Unlike Jerry, she didn't really have a sweet tooth.

He forgot to be cantankerous for a moment and stared at her out of huge, dark-brown eyes. "Excuse me?"

"Young man ninja-scurried up to me and told me to get lost. I considered telling him to shove it, but ended up deciding to sound the retreat." She sipped her coffee and shrugged. "Wasn't in the mood to cause a kerfuffle. Tasering the local youth is usually frowned upon."

"What, you didn't want to cause trouble? You? Is this opposite day and nobody notified me? Boo."

"You're a douche," she said affectionately, reached out, and patted his arm.

"But you love me."

"Friendship really is magic." She couldn't help but crack a smile, and even the corners of his mouth twitched a little. "There's something really fishing going on, here, Jer – really fishy." Just for his sake, she refrained from making an ocean-town-related pun.

"Which is why the FBI is here. They're supposed to investigate and we're supposed to report, remember?"

She opened her mouth to protest, thought better of it, and briefly mimicked shooting a gun at him with her right hand. "Nice try."

This time, he did smile openly. "Everyone's got a skill."

"I got a call from a local, telling me that not only were these white look-alikes seen driving to La Push, but that he saw Isabella Swan, too. And get this" – She folded her arms atop the table and leaned forward – "she looked weird, like she'd gotten plastic surgery."

"It sounds a little like a conspiracy theory, doesn't it?"

June squinted slightly and tilted her head to the side, not taking her eyes off his. "Does it? You know what my FBI guy said. They don't think any theory is far-fetched enough-"