Trigger warning: ugly bully ahead
.
Thanks to:
Di, my editor,
Paige, Aileen, Rachel, and Renee, my prereaders.
Stupid Little Game
Chapter 2
During the next few days, I waded through the nine circles of hell, trying to come up with a list of pros and cons of working at Smith and Devaney.
At first, I was at a loss, afraid to make a decision either way. Not to mention, I was still trying to come to terms with having met Edward Cullen again. He was no longer a boogeyman from my past, but had the possibility to exist in my present.
That awful prospect made me discount the idea of working there. It didn't make good emotional sense for me. Although I was heartbroken about the reason why and found it difficult to believe, the interview had taught me I was still hurt and angry with Edward Cullen. Seeing him daily would bring back memories I thought I'd already moved past, but clearly had not.
Even now, I remembered the nagging fear and inner disquiet I used to feel in high school. All because one boy chose not to like me and others had followed like sheep.
Was the amount of money really enough to offset that turmoil?
The number one pro was the salary, of course. Chicago was no joke when it came to living expenses. Rent was astronomical, and I liked eating well. I'd been without a job for almost a month now, and the money from Mom's life insurance policy was dwindling.
I was also almost thirty years old, which was too old to be hopping from job-to-job like I had been. I'd been looking, fruitlessly it seemed, for a place where I could fit in and grow. Competition in Chicago was fierce, and as good as I thought I was at my job, there was always someone better. Being offered a job at Smith and Devaney was beyond anything I'd ever dreamed of. It was damn awesome, and I still found it hard to believe.
If only it wasn't Edward Cullen doing the offering, though.
I wondered again if he was offering me the job because I was qualified, or because he owed me recompense.
No, I couldn't doubt myself. I deserved this chance. I deserved that one-hundred-five-thousand dollar salary. I deserved to work at a company where I could stay and grow.
But was it possible at a firm where Edward Cullen worked? Because he'd be the one deciding whether or not to promote me. Did I really want to give him that power?
Fuck no.
Which brought me to my biggest con: the boy who'd once torn out my heart and rammed it down my throat.
It was colder than I'd expected in Forks, Washington. Grayer, too.
My selfless sacrifice of giving Mom and Phil their freedom to go on the road with his baseball team, of moving away from Phoenix, seemed more and more like a huge mistake. My no-nonsense, practical dad wouldn't understand how a little thing like the weather could affect my entire mood. It was stupid, really, but I'd made this decision on my own, and now I had to live with it. I needed to suck it up.
Moving to podunk Forks hadn't seemed worthwhile until the first day I pulled into the high school parking lot, when I saw what had to be the most beautiful boy I'd ever seen walk past the front of my truck. There was nothing I liked more than having a cute boy to crush on. A good crush could keep me going for a long time. He might even make living in a rainy backwoods worth the trouble.
As he walked past, I noticed the boy had the most unusual hair color, which gleamed like polished bronze against gray daylight. When his face turned my way, he was frowning, but he looked like a model with those high cheekbones and an almost square jawline. I'd never seen such a perfectly formed face. Not many people could frown and still look beautiful, but he made it look damn good. His light-colored eyes seared into mine as he passed, leaving behind a trail of fire that raced up my back.
I was struck dumb and breathless from a glance that lasted seconds.
I looked for him in the school's hallways, enduring the stares of other students, trying not to mind that no one spoke to me, that no one welcomed the new girl. It was a semester into my junior year, so I got it—I was late to the party, and in a small town school, I was an interloper.
And maybe they thought I'd bite or something.
Or maybe they didn't like the way I looked. I was a tad overweight, not exactly a beauty queen with my pimples and braces, but my eyes were wide and light cinnamon brown, by far my best feature. I wasn't fearsome or horrid-looking, just . . . not a rail thin beauty queen.
I didn't see the beautiful boy again until Biology class, and that was when it fell apart.
The class was full. There was only one available seat. It happened to be the one next to the beautiful boy, and oh boy, if I thought his scowl was scary outside, now it was positively fierce.
"Sorry," I said as I stumbled over the back of his chair leg and nearly dropped my books into his lap.
"Fuck off, bone-shrinker," he replied.
Bone-shrinker?
Oh. He was telling me I disgusted him.
I sank slowly into the adjoining chair with my books hugged close to my chest, gaping at him. No one had ever been so rude to me before, especially for no good reason.
"Don't look at me," he bit out, as if I was an idiot who needed instruction.
I jerked my face away, realizing idiotically that his eyes were a startling green.
The boys at the table in front of us had turned around to give me a bored once-over.
"Oh, Cullen," one of them snickered. "You really hit the lottery this time, dude."
The speaker sneered at me, then high-fived his table-mate like he'd just scored a home run or something.
"He's just mad because she's going to drag his grade down," the other laughed sarcastically.
"Fuck off, Crowley," the beautiful boy growled. Apparently, fuck off was his go-to.
I set my books gingerly on the table in front of me, half expecting it to collapse or explode. Nothing around me seemed safe at the moment.
"I-I'm an A-student," I said, and wanted to cringe. My voice was small and warbly.
I didn't know what I'd done to deserve such hatred from the beautiful boy, who was seeming less and less beautiful by the second, but I didn't want him to think I was stupid. If anything, he would probably drag my grade down.
"I don't care what you are," he said, his gaze raking across me scornfully. "But you're at my table, you're unwelcome, and you drive an ugly-ass truck. If you screw with my grade during labs because you can't keep up, I'm going to be pissed."
He definitely wasn't the beautiful boy in my mind any longer.
"So m-much for the welcome committee," I said, but my voice was still thin, and I stuttered again.
Once my words registered, Cullen did something with his mouth. Before I knew what had happened, a glob of spit hit my cheek.
"There's your welcome."
Angry, humiliated tears came fast and furious, and it took me longer than I liked to blink them away. When I saw his face again, he was looking at me as if he was shocked. But the shock was quickly replaced by scorn as he turned to the boys, who were snickering loudly, and told them to shut the fuck up.
I hunched my shoulder, wiping his spit off my cheek. Then I grabbed my books, stood, and ran out of the room like a coward.
The Biology teacher was coming inside as I was trying to leave.
"You're going the wrong way, Miss," he said kindly.
"Excuse me," I said, tears threatening again at his kind tone. "I came to the wrong room."
I'd find another Biology class.
Any other class.
Hopefully, on Mars.
. . .
When it seemed as if thinking about the Smith and Devaney job for even one more minute was going to make my head explode, I FaceTimed the most sensible person I knew: my dad.
He drove a 2007 Honda Civic because it still moved; he sat in a recliner purchased in the eighties because it hadn't fallen apart yet, although it was damn close; and, Mom's yellow kitchen walls still greeted visitors, although they were kind of sad-looking and dingy now.
Come to think of it, Dad hated change, and probably wouldn't approve of anything that made me uncomfortable. He wouldn't understand the lure of wanting to work in an iconic building in a diverse, thriving metropolis. He was a simple, small-town man who enjoyed fishing and hunting, watching the Mariners in the summer, and the Seahawks in the fall.
Conservative or not, I needed a dose of his sensible practicality right now. I was dangerously close to accepting a job I would probably love, but with a company I might grow to regret.
Someone had to talk sense to me.
I opened my laptop, then clicked on the FaceTime icon. Smiling into the camera, I checked to make sure there was nothing in between my teeth.
Dad hated FaceTime. If he had his way, I'd call him on the landline. The only reason he had an iPhone was because I'd gotten weepy about him not having one, and he hated it when I cried. Since I lived so far away, I wanted to be able to see his face—that patiently impatient look of censure he wore helped keep me grounded.
After five long, tense rings, he finally answered.
"Bella?"
"Dad, all I can see is your ear."
The image on my laptop screen jumped and jerked before his face appeared, and I grinned at his put-upon expression, feeling my chest lighten.
"There you are, my favorite person in the world."
Dad scowled deeply as he tried to center the phone on his face, but the frown was fake; his repressed laughter was making his phone bounce, and his face on my screen flickered like the girl's from that old movie, The Blair Witch Project.
After we traded short, polite niceties, I came right out with it.
"So, I received a job offer from a company that can pay me substantial money," I said with a drawn out sigh. "Like, quite a bit more than I've ever made before. Like, life-changing more. But my boss would be someone from high school. I couldn't stand him, and now he makes me want to hurl. What should I do?"
One of Dad's eyebrows slowly rose, then he harrumphed. "Pass. Money isn't everything, and you spend most of your waking hours at work. Do you really want to spend it trying not to . . . er, hurl?"
I rubbed my forehead. "But it's for a major firm. And did you hear that it's for a lot of money?"
"I heard something about hurling," he returned dryly.
"Yeah, but that's only if I see my boss. He said that I wouldn't have to deal with him," I added helpfully.
"How can you not have to deal with your boss?" he asked and shrugged, the movement making his face disappear. The view on my laptop skewed, presenting me with a diagonal shot of the framed mallard picture that hung over the fireplace.
"Damn thing," I heard him whisper as he finally centered the camera back on his face.
"In this case, I'd report to a Senior Manager within the Department. My boss is the Vice President. I'd be in the trenches while he's off doing vice presidential things."
"I don't understand the problem here," Dad growled. "Sounds like you want to take the job more than you don't."
"But that is the problem," I insisted. "I shouldn't want the job because I can't stand this person. We have some horrible history. But it's my dream job, so I'm confused. I can't make up my mind."
His eyes narrowed. "What is this horrible history you're talking about?"
He made me cry, made me doubt who I was. Made me sometimes wish I'd never been born.
I'd never told Dad anything about the bullying. I'd been too ashamed, too embarrassed. Coming to live with him was supposed to be an adult decision. How adult would it have been if I'd gone to him to say I was being picked on? Besides, I didn't believe in having my dad fight my battles. Not to mention, he was a sheriff, and the punishment would have probably been this whole other, embarrassing thing.
"He was just a real asshole in high school," I said shortly, not wanting to get into it. Not even wanting to think about it.
"Well, is he still an asshole?"
No, that was the thing. The very terrifying thing.
"He doesn't appear to be. But every time I'd see him, I'd remember what a bastard he was."
"That kinda tells me everything right there," Dad said. "And while I'm happy you called me to talk about this, it sounds like you've already made your decision, and now you're driving yourself nuts trying to talk yourself out of it. Seems like a waste of time, Bells."
We traded scowls.
"So you're saying I should take the job?"
"Do pigs fly?" he shot back. "I think you should pass on it because I don't want you unhappy and hurling in public, but I can also tell you've already made up your mind. I can't tell you it'll be okay, but nothing's permanent."
I straightened. "That's right. I can always quit."
"Uh, not what I meant," he drawled. "You don't have to stay in Chicago, you know. Why not move back here where the cost of living makes some damn sense?"
It was our old, tired argument. He'd been shocked and saddened when I moved across the country to attend DePaul University in Chicago for its Marketing course. I'd planned to go to Arizona State to be closer to Mom, but she'd passed away early my senior year in high school, and my life had changed drastically. Numb, depressed, and screwed up, I'd tried to outrun the pain of losing her by moving to Chicago.
I'd also thought to outrun Dad. If I didn't care about him or see him so much anymore, maybe his death wouldn't gut me so badly when he eventually died, too.
Months and months of therapy had eventually set me straight about that idiotic misconception.
Just like it had taken months and months to acclimate to Chicago. At first, I'd hated the hustle and bustle of the city. It was entirely different from anything I'd known before—a huge culture shock. On top of that, I was hurting, alone, and lonely, and felt like I'd lost my touchstone.
Well, what had I expected? I'd moved away from him.
Chicago gradually grew on me when my college dorm mate, Rose, started dragging me out of our room on the weekends. We began by hunting down unusual places, like the Leather Archive Museum, which was dedicated to the history of bondage and fetishism. The sight and scent of all that leather, and what it was intended for, deliciously scandalized me.
We went to the Crown Fountain in Millennium Park with its fifty-foot-tall video screen that spit water on people. I'd walked under the mouth of the person pictured on the screen, welcoming the cold water as it splashed down onto my head, calling it a baptism.
Then there was Ed Debevic's funky, fifties-style diner with sassy waitstaff who wore costumes to work. A greaser dressed in a white T-shirt and a bomber jacket, ala James Dean, served me a hamburger while we traded playful insults. Surprising the hell out of me, he'd even asked me out at the end of dinner. Although we'd gone out a few times and had some heavy make-out sessions, we didn't have much in common, and it had fizzled out.
But, it was fun. It was liberating. There was always something new to experience, and I began to appreciate the city, to welcome its diversity. Finally, I felt as if I belonged.
"I'm sorry, Dad, but I'm not moving back to Forks." I sighed. "Right now, Chicago is where I want to be. Wrigley Field, Millennium Park, the Dog House."
"Hot dogs," he scoffed. "You're staying for a hot dog."
"And for this job, I guess."
"I don't know why you bothered to ask me about it," he griped.
"I value your advice," I shot back.
"Never listen to it."
"I always consider it."
"And then ignore it."
"Hey, I have plenty of time to make mistakes."
"Hmm," he grunted. "Let's hope this isn't one of them."
Yes, let's.
"Well, I love you no matter what mistakes you make," he said with a heavy sigh, because declarations of love made him uncomfortable.
"Same," I said, because I was the same.
I was also clearly insane and greedy, because I was accepting the job at Smith and Devaney. But it wasn't Edward Cullen who was winning.
I was taking the job because I felt like I could make an impact, and have fun while doing it.
As long as he stayed out of my sight.
. . .
