Watching Her Chapter 17 - Basil of Baker Street

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Chapter 17 – Basil of Baker Street - The Great Mouse Detective
Basil is fashioned after Sherlock Holmes. He is moody and dramatic, but also very brilliant and sneaky about routing out the clues.

"Dude, we are going to kick so much ass at camp," Emmett whoops as he punts the ball back to me where I stand at the top of the eighteen yard mark where I'm practicing my free kicks.

I raise my hand and tip my chin toward Jasper, our signal to each other when we're doing a set piece. I chip the ball over imaginary defenders, the arc absolutely perfect so that Jasper can head the ball into the upper 90 of the goal. Emmett grunts loudly as he stretches and reaches for the ball as it slips right past the tips of his fingers.

"Hell yes!" Jasper fist pumps and then does some ridiculous imitation of the Running Man just to piss off Emmett even more. Normally when Jasper scores a goal he's the picture of calm and cool, celebrating with only a few high-fives to our teammates and a slow, casual jaunt back to the center circle.

"Asshole," Emmett gripes but then immediately gets back into his stance so we can run the play again.
We practice for hours, taking full advantage of the sunshine and the warmer weather. The past few days the weather has been perfect, no rain at all, and the guys and I have spent most of our time on the field and the gym up at school training. With only a little over a month left until camp, it's definitely not the time to slack.

Even if there's a huge part of me that wants to stay at home, in my bed, and do nothing but think about her. It'd be damn easy to do, too. I shift a little and reach down to unobtrusively adjust myself, a frequent reaction whenever I think about my Drummer Girl … so it's one that happens a whole fucking lot.

"Yo, Edward," Jasper calls to me, yanking me away from thoughts of long legs, brown hair, and her pretty face.

The sun's high overhead and there's not a cloud to be found in the electric blue sky. Sweat drips down from my hair to the back of my neck and my gray shirt sticks to my chest. I rub the back of my hand across my forehead and lift my shoulder so that I can wipe off the corner of my mouth.

The glare of the sun makes me squint when I look over at Jasper.

"About thirty more minutes then we'll head to the diner. Sound good?" he asks as he throws me the soccer ball.

I let the ball bounce off my chest and fall down where I guide it to the ground with the inside of my foot. "Jas, don't you know there's no hands in soccer? Unless you want to try your hand at keeper. You never know, you might give Emmett a run for his money." I smirk when Em growls at me.

"In your dreams, Eddie. Come on, let's do some one on one with the keeper, boys. We'll see who schools who."

Jasper raises an eyebrow at me and I shrug. Firing up Emmett is always fun to watch, not to mention when he's out to prove something, it makes practice that much more enjoyable. I bounce the ball on the end of my foot and stare directly at Emmett. I don't look down but keep the ball moving up and down until there's a slight, so slight that anyone who hadn't been his teammate and best friend for most of their life would miss, relaxing of his shoulders and a shift of his weight from his right to his left. I wait for the perfect moment, and when it comes, I don't hesitate. In a move that feels and probably looks like slow motion from Jasper's vantage point, I flick my foot, popping up the ball. My leg lifts immediately and I whip it around, hitting the ball with the sweet spot of my foot and watch as it sails through the air and swishes in the back of the net.

"God fucking damn it!" Emmett roars, slamming his fists in the ground once before he hops up, a huge grin on his face. "Fucking A, Edward, that was awesome!" He pulls his gloves off and then runs a hand through his hair. "You keep shooting like that and being held over at camp is guaranteed."

"I really hope so."

"God, I'm full." Emmett groans after he's just consumed more than should be possible for anyone to shovel in their face, even for someone that can eat like he can.

Jasper and I share a look right before he tosses a French fry across the table at Emmett. I shake my head when it catches on his t-shirt, and hangs precariously until Emmett plucks it off his chest and then stuffs it in his mouth.

"Your mom would kick your ass for that, idiot." Jasper chuckles as he slurps down the rest of his Sprite.
The diner's almost empty since the lunch rush, such as it is in Forks, has passed. We're just shooting the shit, deciding whether or not to have a movie marathon at Jasper's house so that Mrs. Whitlock winds up asking us to stay for dinner or go to my house for Call of Duty and frozen pizza when my phone vibrates with a text message. I pull it out of my pocket and groan when I read it.

"Sorry, guys, but plans have changed," I tell them as I tap out a reply back to my dad. They both look at me expectantly. "Gotta run up to the hospital and get something for my dad. We'll catch up later." I throw money down on the table for my lunch and head for my car, grateful that I met the guys this morning instead of having Emmett pick me up.

That might have a tiny bit to do with wanting to stay in bed as long as possible dreaming about a certain brown-haired, hot as fuck drummer girl …

Over the past few days she and I have developed a pattern, or so it seems at any rate. I get to her house about 1:30, because the fact that she comes outside at 2 A.M has not changed, and trade our notebooks. I've never once had the feeling that she's watching me, which considering the state of things is a bit disconcerting to say the least. To be honest though, from what she's said in her messages to me, she's beginning to trust me … a little.

We've shared normal things about ourselves, easy things like favorite colors and foods. The fact that red is her favorite color doesn't really surprise me, that chimichangas are her favorite food does. She loves to read, something I guessed on my own judging from the eclectic collection on her bookshelf in her building. Her dad taught her how to play the drums, but the question I asked following that, What's his favorite song? went unanswered as did everything having to do with where she moved from, what she's doing in Forks, and why she goes outside.

It's like looking at one of those Impressionist pictures; all the little details I know about her don't make any sense yet, but there's a big picture there just waiting for more colors, more pieces of the whole, for her to fill in all the blanks.

It's not hard to find a parking spot at the hospital and I wave at a few of the doctors and nurses I've known for most of my life as I head for Dad's office. Between working here and the fact that Forks is the size of postage stamp, it's a wonder I don't know every single person I pass.

"Hey, Mrs. Cope," I tell the woman that's been my dad's secretary since we'd moved here.

She looks up, a warm, welcoming smile on her face. Her arms go wide and I lean forward, knowing there's no way I'm getting out of here without getting a hug and my cheeks pinched. It's been her standard greeting for as long as I can remember. I try not to cringe when I get a whiff of Eau de'Old Lady … that musty dried rose smell that all old women seem to love so much.

Gross.

"Edward, dear, Dr. Cullen said you'd be stopping by," she coos as she leans back and does indeed pinch my cheeks. I try not to roll my eyes when she goes on and on about her cats, her bridge club, and what the Widow Nelson wore to church on Sunday.

I smile in all the right places, make non-committal sounds so it seems like I'm paying attention until she finally takes a breath. "Um, Mrs. Cope, the package for my dad? I need to get home and call my parents."

"Oh, yes, yes," she mutters, fluttering her hands about while she searches for the wayward package … the one sitting on the corner of her desk.

Once I finally manage to pry it from her fingers after promising her that yes, I am eating more than just frozen pizza and I do remember to brush my teeth before bed, I make my escape.

I'm about to the elevator when I hear someone say, "Oh, Kate, those are the most adorable cookie cutters."
I don't really pay attention, at least not until the person named Kate answers, "I know! They're for Bella."
The name sends a shiver down my spine and the hair on my arms stands on end. My stomach does that damned twisty turny thing again and my heart feels like a balloon about burst.

I turn my head just enough to surreptitiously glance at the nurse's station. One woman stands behind the other as they look at a computer monitor, but all I can think about is the name Bella.

It's her, Drummer Girl. I don't know how I know, I just do.

What I hear next only confirms it.

"How is she adjusting to small town life? Poor thing, she must be going crazy cooped up in that house all the time. The Abbott house is huge for sure, but still …" The nurse whose name I can't remember tsks her tongue.
I've seen Kate around. I don't know her personally, but she's just become my new best friend. "Answer her, damn it," I hiss under my breath.

The elevator has come and gone, twice, but I don't move. I can't. Not if Kate's going to talk about my girl. "She's … well, she's as well as can be expected." Kate looks around and then motions for the other woman to lean down and they whisper back and forth for a few seconds.

Fuck. I strain to hear, willing one of them to slip and speak louder, but when a patient buzzes for the desk, their conversation ends.

The doors of the elevator open and I step inside; a slow grin spreads across my face.

Bella.

Drummer Girl has a name.
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