AN: Outta my league so don't kill me.
You wont get where this is going the first time round so bare with me through the shots.
And let's face it, I'm no famous fanfictioner but meh, I. Am. Influencing Bella.
Concealer Walkers.
Chapter One.
Cradled to her chest, Rosalie screams again.
She clutches the ring, I clutch my ears.
"You fucking bitch," she cries out again.
Over jealous drama queen- can't take in the fact that maybe, just maybe, some people in the world aren't at all into superficial back stabbing big mouths.
If males in this town had their way, Rosalie Hale would be posing nude on a spread out poster stuck to their bedroom wall. Another way of admiring her good looks and slender thighs yet having the peace of silence of no screeching noises of authority from her that they hear oh so often.
"How could you do this to me? Huh? Huh?! What have I done to you?" she cradles it to her chest.
I don't want to go through the list because lets face it, we're all lazy people and I already know enough to keep my mouth shut. No matter how many times Rosalie asks you a question, it doesn't mean you should answer it.
Why did you do this? How could you have done this? Do I look fat in this?
There's never a good enough answer, never a good enough pay check, never a good enough shoe size, never a good enough hair stylist.
And I, Bella Swan, am given the great responsibility in getting the good enough pay check, shoe size, hair stylist.
Then again, to her, there's never a good enough anything.
I look over at Alice, Alice looks over at Rosalie, Rosalie looks like a beautiful disaster.
"Rose, you look ugly when you cry. Stop it," Said Alice, going over to Rosalie's table of alcoholic drinks and sips at a small cup of whiskey.
Too much Jasper in her life.
I sigh.
I look back over to Rosalie, clutching her ring, clutching her over exposed chest, clutching at what she thought she had.
Well, what can I say? How the hell was I suppose to know the turn of events in this situation. I'm no fucking, Alice.
Over the wails of baby blue cries, the gurgled shots of whiskey and my fidgety stance and the tension in this overly clunky Ikea office, I go back to day one, like we all do when we're about to die.
Well, in this case, lose your job.
...
Once ago.
I'm no artist, but fuck did this look good.
I pick up my fork, I bring it to my lips, part them, and- oh, so good.
"Is there anything else I can get you?" Persistent-teenage-boy-number-one asks, a pen ready in his hand, the paper shaking in his palm.
"I'm fine, thank you," I say, sitting back, drinking out of my glass.
He nods, and slowly.... but surely, walks away.
I look over at the young couple, holding their hands, seemingly all happy and all I can think about is the pond beside her.
Just one push and-
"Sorry, but do you think you could let me have one of your sugars?" Weird pick up line, so I turn my head.
A man in work suite and tie with a cup of take away coffee in his hand and he's gripping and un-gripping the plastic cup.
Steam comes out of the top out of the little hole.
Ouch, that must be hot.
"Here, take a napkin," I say, passing it over to his fingers. He wraps it around the cup where his fingers are.
He sighs a thanks and his fingers stop gripping.
That's when I realise I gave him a napkin and not a packet of sugar.
Weird how we ask for something we want, and get something that we need back.
Mistaking my silence as for an awaiting explanation he explains.
"Oh, um, there's none on my table and yours is stocked out on them-," I look at the over flowing bowl of pink packets sugars. "-so I thought I could steal a few off from you," he runs his hand at the back of his head.
I feel so stupid is what he's thinking.
I smile at him, glare at the couple on the other side of the street and pass him three pink packets sugars.
"Thanks," he says.
"No problem," My eye's turn into slits at the couple across the street.
Noticing my gaze, he nods knowingly.
"Rosalie Hale, yeah, I work with her," he rolls his eyes and then winces at the hot coffee burning his tongue.
Actually surprised by this set of information I widen my eyes at him and I look back at Rosalie, I look back at him.
"Really?" I asked, never wavering my gaze as I stuff another piece of grilled chicken in my mouth. "How strange, so do I," I say, placing my fork back on to the plate.
"Oh? I work on the twenty fifth floor-," Ah, no wonder I don't know this man. "-Which floor do you-,"
"Nineteenth," I grit my teeth together.
Let him think about that.
"Oh, so, your not-,"
"No, I'm not rich, I don't drive a BMW and yes, the rumours are true, everyone below the twenty first floor live in crapy apartments and struggle to pay the rent," I say, annoyed by his presence.
"Wow, slow down their I wasn't saying-,"
"But you were thinking it," I say, picking up my bag, ready to leave.
"Well, yeah, but I don't think less of you. Look, twenty fifth floor and all and here I am, picking out lame excuses to talk to you."
I knew it!
Pick up line number 19003.
"But that's before you knew I worked there, or under there," I say, wondering if I should leave or not now.
"Well, now I know. And I'm actually dying to get your number," he says and sighs out, and looks at me sheepishly.
I giggle, the fourteen year old girl I used to be.
"How about I give you a name, Bella, Bella Swan," I say, putting out my hand.
He grins at me. "Jacob, Jacob Black...um, soooo, how about that number?"
You grab whatever closest thing you have to get to the top.
I guess mine came, asking for a packet of sugar.