Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight or any of the characters.
Preface
In high school, I was a 4.0 GPA student. I was a dork, but whatever. I was that smart kid, you know the one you aimed spit balls at during a test in hopes I'd move enough for you to see the answers? Oh yeah, you know what I'm talking about. I was that kid. So now, 4 years later, I'm failing my biggest test. Life.
Maybe I should have been a rock star.
Okay, not a rock star, but you get it. Today I had my 18th interview in two weeks. And for the 18th time I was turned down. Maybe I wasn't made for business. My dad did it. Well, I'm not my dad. If I were, I'd have a job and making around 35 bucks an hour. I'd have a luxurious apartment in New York, or somewhere fancy like that. Well guess what?
Obviously, I'm not my dad.
Honestly we're polar opposites. First of all, Dad is always right. There is no such thing as admitting he was wrong, or even the thought of him being wrong was abolished in my house. When we fought, I had to admit I was wrong, or I had to apologize. Regardless of what had happened between us. He influences people by fear, and I by… well I don't know. I suppose its my actions, or, now don't freak out, thoughts. Sometimes when I want someone to be happy it just….
So my dad and I are also different in appearance. My dad is the short stalky type, tan, built, dark hair and all that. I'm taller and more wiry, plus I have blonde hair. Chicks dig blondes.
Or at least I hope this one does.
Here I am, at a bar. Yep, that's right, me, Jasper Hale, at a bar. And there is this gorgeous bartender I have been watching for the past seven minutes I have been here. She hasn't noticed me yet, but I can't take my eyes off her. Her movements are so, graceful. She's short and pixie like with dark brown short hair. She hums to herself, I can't be sure of what it is, but I like it.
Oh crap, she looked at me. Lets hope she can't read my mind! Suddenly she is in front of me, close. Very close. She smells, amazing, her golden eyes peircing deep into my memory and she asks,
"What do we have here?" And then she gigles, high and ringing, like the bells in our highschool band.
"Well, uhm… I think I'll j-just have a club soda…" I stumble through the words and she laughs again, louder this time.
"You don't come to a bar in Seattle for a club soda! That's pitiful!" her last words hit me so hard I don't really control my next sentence.
"Story of my freaking life."
Next thing I know there is a bubbling club soda in my face and this woman… no, goddess, props her head on her hands and says,
"So why don't you tell me. The story of your," She giggles "freaking life."