Ownership: Nothing but my own story.
Author's note: Sorry to jump from smut into something different, the story probably seems a little manic. Rosalie probably seems a little manic, because she is. Regardless, this is a background chapter.
A/N (10/13/2010): Again, I just slightly adjusted this chapter today.
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She couldn't remember the first time she met Bella; actually, she couldn't remember the first fifty or so times she'd been around Bella.
They'd moved into the apartment next door in November, Bella and her roommates. But Rosalie didn't remember consciously noticing Bella until the following spring – maybe May or so, she thought.
It wasn't because Bella wasn't worth noticing; to the contrary, when Rosalie finally realized she existed in more than just an arbitrary, passing way, she realized that Bella was actually quite beautiful. Actually, she was extremely beautiful; months later, Rosalie marveled at the fact that she had been so self-centered that she hadn't noticed.
Bella was really, really beautiful; soft, full lips; long, shiny brown hair that was better described as auburn simply because no better adjective existed to canvas the incredible depths of highlights and lowlights that her tantalizingly soft hair possessed. And those eyes – deep brown and slightly lidded at the top (making her always look the tiniest bit sleepy, or maybe "sleepy" wasn't the right word – those eyes were definitely "bedroom eyes," Rosalie thought. The kind of eyes that could make a mind start to wander in the direction of that same, extremely fitting adjective…) Once Rosalie noticed those eyes, she knew she was in trouble – she knew she was headed into that tricky world of uncertainty and insecurity, and worst of all, vulnerability. A world she couldn't control.
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Rosalie laughed at herself thinking about that first time she'd seen Bella's eyes and gotten that feeling in her stomach – it was so typical, so fucking predictable, that she was going to have to give up that perfectly comfortable world of control that she'd created for herself. This always happens to people like me, she thought. We create our own orderly, controlled lives just to have something trivial come along and throw them into chaos. Well not full-on chaos, but a lesser, still frustrating version of it.
Rosalie had the gift of thinking in patterns, and she knew the patterns of life, especially as they applied to people like her. "Control-freak" was way too pedestrian a term; however "Sociopath" (as she'd been lovingly diagnosed many times in her life by a series of annoyingly smug, typically small-minded and exorbitantly expensive psychiatrists) wasn't correct either, at least not in Rosalie's case. The pattern she understood herself to be influenced by was more or less a wave principal: work to gain control over each person, each interaction, each emotion in your life, get to the apex where everything is figured out, and then some outside variable will get thrown in and quickly send you crashing back down into a sea of uncertainty. Slowly recover, get back to the apex, and then crash! Again, and again, and again. Rosalie had gotten to the point where she could watch the entire process almost objectively (as much as this is possible when you're looking at yourself); she could even see the humor in it. Control was impossible – she knew it. But what to do about that – therein lies the rub.
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Rosalie knew herself, she knew her flaws, she knew why she did what she did, and she knew why she was the way she was. Complete self-awareness, she thought, most people spend their whole lives trying to get to that point, and here I am, 29 years old, and I've already got it. And for Rosalie, here was the funny part, the best part, the part that no one seems to ever acknowledge – you can know EXACTLY why you do what you do, what happened (always in childhood and adolescence, shocker; and mostly because of your parents, double shocker) that made you that way, what motivates you, what faults you have, all of it. The best, funniest part about life, Rosalie thought to herself, is that it DOESN'T FUCKING MATTER. I know exactly what my deal is, I know exactly why something hurts me, I know what I'm afraid of and I know why, I know where my darkest urges come from - I've identified everything down to the tiniest minutia and including the ickiest, most uncomfortable parts, and yet it doesn't change ANYTHING.
Rosalie knew the greatest myth about therapy, about that self-awareness one is supposed to strive for, the complete understanding of your own twisted motivations behind the things you do and the identification of the real truths behind why certain things cause you pain, what fears drive you to do what you do; to be who you are.
Here's that myth - once you figure it out, you feel better (or liberated or finally alive or some other garbage along those cliché lines.)
Here's the real truth – you're still afraid, and it still hurts. And you still want to do the dark, icky stuff. Congratulations, you truly know yourself!
But guess what; it still sucks! Identification of your fear and pain and darkness does not take it away. At all. It just makes you feel weaker and less in control. Because now I know the who, the what, the when, the where, the why, the how, and et cetera, yet and I'm STILL afraid and I STILL feel pain, and I STILL think dark things. This is what Rosalie knew. And she knew of at least 71 psychiatrists, psychologists, wellness coaches, spiritual advisors, and assorted religious figures on the island of Manhattan alone that had no idea what to do with you after you figured all that stuff out.
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This is partly why Rosalie didn't notice Bella at first – she'd pretty much figured out by now that she wasn't going to get a lot from people, so she just really didn't take notice of them without being prompted. The sad fact for Rosalie was that she'd learned, trial by fire, that most people were actually pretty stupid. They couldn't think beyond a certain point – they were all still looking for the "who, what, where, and why", whereas Rosalie had long since progressed past that to the "what now" part, the part that most people simply weren't smart enough for, or were too self-deluded, to ever get to. This fact didn't give Rosalie any pleasure or satisfaction – she didn't revel in the fact that she was more possibly just more intelligent, that her brain was possibly just more superior. Frankly, it just made her feel lonely. She still wished that she could connect with people; contrary to popular belief, she did want to have friends and she certainly did not consider herself "too good" for everyone (as had been said so often about her). But she found herself so frequently disappointed in her efforts that in the past few years she found herself rarely able to muster the effort to bother anymore.
And she didn't need to – people were so drawn to her beauty, her wealth, her accomplishments, her social standing, that she could put off the appearance of being widely popular and valued without really having to try. She was grateful for this – she knew she was extremely lucky, and often wondered how horrible it must be to live life in a head like hers without the beauty and body to compensate.
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Rosalie remembered that night in (maybe) May clearly – not the date, of course, but the feeling – she wouldn't ever forget that. She had been reclining outside on one of the two chaise lounges she'd just had delivered, reveling in the rare satisfaction of accomplishment that was currently washing over her. She could feel eyes on her, watching her, but this wasn't a surprise, nor was it uncomfortable. The brunette girl in the backyard adjacent to Rosalie's had been sitting out there most of the day, reading, but more frequently, watching Rosalie assemble the two chairs and work in her garden and around her own yard.
Their yards were only separated by a tall trellis fence with a doorway cut out to link them, and while the trellis at least gave the illusion of a barrier, one could easily see right through it. Of course the darker haired girl still didn't think Rosalie had noticed her watching, staring actually. But of course Rosalie had noticed. And she didn't mind.
It had been hot for a spring day in New York, about 85 degrees, and Rosalie had decided a few days prior to order two teak lounge chairs that she knew would require assembly. She obviously didn't do this to save money – Rosalie just liked to do these types of things herself; she liked the feeling it gave her. So of course the girl next door had spent most of the day watching her – Rosalie Hale 15 feet away in white shorts (very short shorts at that) and a long, tight black ribbed tank, her extremely long legs still quite tan from a recent weekend in St. Barth's, her long blond hair pulled back in a pony tail, just the slightest bit of sweat glistening on her as she muscled the heavy wooden components into place – anyone would have had a hard time NOT staring at her. Rosalie would have preferred to have been completely alone, but she didn't really mind that the company next door was so actively admiring her, and she especially liked that this neighbor girl thought Rosalie hadn't noticed. Plus, the eyes fixed on her gave Rosalie a slight tingling sensation on her clear, lightly bronzed, skin. At the time, she attributed it to being hungover from the previous night's bourbon tasting with her brother.
But it felt weird, and good, and so she didn't mind the girl's very unsubtle gaze on her, or the feelings it was eliciting, at all.
Might as well milk this a little bit, Rosalie thought as she walked (more like glided – Rosalie was of course very graceful) over to the pull-up bar her brother Emmett had insisted on installing in the doorway of the trellis divider that separated the two backyards. She was now directly in the girl's line of sight and too close to go unacknowledged, so Rosalie grasped both ends of the bar and leaned forward into the doorway, smirking at this girl seductively and uttering a quick "hey." The girl, who had resumed the "just reading a magazine" ruse with renewed intensity upon noticing that Rosalie was walking over, looked up now and Rosalie detected a small gasp, as this poor girl's eyes fell on what was essentially a supermodel, now only 8 feet away. And leaning lazily forward with her arms above and behind her so that her back arched and every muscle on her perfectly toned upper body engaged and flexed slightly.
Rosalie had intentionally scrunched her tank at the waist so that it rode up just enough to give the girl a peek of her lower abdominals, and her breasts (perfect, very full b-cups that they were, with nipples that an ex-boyfriend once joked were so perfect they should be in the Smithsonian – comic book nipples he called them. Rosalie hated that her nipples were always hard, she found it extremely embarrassing. Her ex-boyfriends did not feel the same way…), anyway Rosalie leaned into the doorframe in such a way that those breasts poked out prominently, and Rosalie could barely stifle a chuckle as this brown-haired girl gasped and raked her eyes up and down Rosalie's body before stopping at her breasts and staying there. Oh, and Rosalie wasn't wearing a bra. Oops.
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"Um hey," the girl mumbled back, quickly bringing her eyes up to a more appropriate spot and blushing furiously. She got out of the chair she'd been sitting in and walked over to Rosalie, pausing about two feet away. What the fuck are these tingles? Rosalie questioned internally. Maybe I tweaked a nerve or something? The tingles got worse when the girl stopped in front of her and smiled shyly.
Oh Shit, Rosalie thought, I can't remember her fucking name. That goddamn girl and her roommates have probably sat outside with me, Em, and Jasper only about 60 fucking times and I still can't remember her name. Rosalie, despite her patrician upbringing and generally excellent manners, had quite a fondness for cussing, especially to herself. And right now she cursed herself for not having the courtesy to have remembered this girl's name, only because she considered herself to be better than that. But whatever, there were so, so, so many people that fell into Rosalie's 'forgive me, but who are you' category that this was hardly noteworthy. So Rosalie pressed on, recovering quickly from her momentary internal lapse in courtesy to return to the more pressing issue at hand: fucking a little bit with the neighbor girl who'd been staring at her more-or-less all day.
"So," Rosalie said with a tinge of sarcasm, looking directly at the girl and smirking again. "I just wanted to give you the heads up that I'm going to do a few pull-ups," Rosalie paused, enjoying the confusion on the girl's face, knowing she was extremely intimidated by Rosalie right now and probably thoroughly embarrassed from so blatantly checking her out a moment prior. "You know, so that you don't think 'why is this weirdo doing pull-ups eight feet away from me without even saying a word to me' or something." Rosalie had the humility thing down pat, and she saw the relief immediately wash across the girl's features. When it came to manipulating other's emotions, Rosalie was no slouch.
"Oh, I don't think you're a weirdo," the girl said genuinely as she kicked at an invisible pebble on the ground. No shit, Rosalie thought to herself, of course you don't. You think I'm hot and scary and a bitch and way out of your league and you probably hated me up to this point. But now that I've said something so sweetly self-depreciating, you're going to feel special and different and very confused about me. And God knows you'll be a lot easier to manipulate now if I need you for something. Rosalie played these kinds of games with people all day long, and right now Bella wasn't any different to her.
But instead of comforting or placating Bella with any reassuring comment in response to her generous but predictable remark, Rosalie instead just silently let go of the bar and bent down to adjust the shoelace on one of her tre-torns. She slowly raised her head, looking up at the neighbor girl and squinting slightly, and she unleashed one of her best, killer Rosalie smiles. She held it long enough to see the girl's eyes widen and her mouth open slightly to start to speak, and then Rosalie immediately stood up, turned her back and reached back up to the bar, smiling to herself.
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Of course, nothing had been wrong with her shoelace, Rosalie was just pulling a classic power switch. Getting down low in a submissive posture causes your opponent to lower their defenses and gives them a subconscious feeling of control. Then throw in one of those smiles that makes their knees go weak, but follow it by immediately turning your back and walking away. Push. Pull. Push. Pull. She could practically hear the turmoil in the brunette's head. God, people are so easy, she mused as she began pulling herself up to the top of the bar. She held herself up there, back fully flexed, until she heard the crunch of gravel stop and knew the girl was once again sitting down. And Rosalie could feel the girl's eyes on her back. Her perfectly muscled back. But Rosalie was still tingling. "Fucking Emmett and his Bourbon," she groused, too low for the neighbor girl to hear.
Rosalie repped up and down, easily finishing twenty pull-ups - no small feat for a woman. She had worked hard to become incredibly strong. But she made sure to stay extremely lean; never looking over-muscled or manly, just toned. Her abs were in particularly great shape because she'd just shot a Ralph Lauren Blue Label internal corporate mailer, and she'd had to wear a number of extremely skimpy bikinis. It wasn't a huge shoot, but Mr. Lauren had specifically requested her, so Rosalie had trained ruthlessly the month before, and currently her abs were amazing, every groove and contour of the individual muscles visible but not so prominent that she appeared to have tried; it looked natural. And hot – Rosalie wasn't a total asshole, but she knew she looked hot. And when she first showed Em and Jasper her stomach, right before the shoot, the number of "dudes" and "holy shits" and high five's she got from them were pretty flattering and definitely hysterical.
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Anyway, knowing what she knew about her stomach, Rosalie dropped off the pull-up bar and turned enough so that her body was again facing in the girl, but she kept her gaze fixed in the direction of her own backyard. Feigning calculated obliviousness expertly, Rosalie grabbed the bottom of her tank top and pulled it up to wipe the sweat from her brow. The tight, ribbed black cotton tank was long enough that, pulled up, the bottom could reach her forehead without revealing the entirety of her chest.
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And as she pulled it up to reveal her chiseled mid-section and just the slightest flash of the bottoms of her perfect breasts, both glistening from a light coat of perspiration and sun, she heard the sound of glass shattering and a muffled "fuck," and looked over to see that the neighbor girl had just dropped the glass of whatever she had been drinking mid-sip.
