BPOV
"When are you going to tell her she has to go?"
I press my face into the decorative pillow. It's covered in sequins. A few of them worm their way into my mouth. Rose and Emmett continue to talk just a few feet away, hardly muffled by the kitchen door. They assume I'm asleep, I'm sure.
"Look, she can't keep living here. She's here all the time. I barely get any alone time with my man anymore." Her voice gets all breathy at the end. I imagine her fingers worming their way beneath his pinstripe suit.
"I know, Babe. But I can't just kick her out. She's my friend and all that."
Rose sighs dramatically.
"She's been here for ages now. I thought we were going to move in together . . ."
"We are, baby . . ."
I can't hear anymore. I throw the blanket aside and stand up.
Current status of my clothes: Pajamas, rumpled. Hair, rumpled. Face, sequin imprints.
"Bella," Rose says when I push open the door to the kitchen, all feigned surprised. Emmett looks uncomfortable. He scratches the back of his neck.
"Rose," I greet.
She looks impeccable, as always.
Current status of Rosalie: Hair, shiny. Eyes, shiny. Smile, shiny. Pressed pencil skirt and blazer, gray. Blouse, floral print. Nail polish, unchipped.
"How's the job hunt going?" She braces her hand on her hip, French manicure nearly impeccable.
"It's going," I smile back.
Current status of the relationship between Rose and I: sickly sweet, bordering on vomit-enducing. Hostile, just under the surface. Emmett is a bumper.
The amount of respect I have for Rosalie Hale is bordering on zero. She is the antithesis of everything that I stand for as an English major. As chief editor of one of LA's skeeviest gossip magazines, Contraband, Rosalie spends most of her time trolling PerezHilton and paying off paparazzi.
Her co-workers know her as ruthless and unforgiving. I know her as the bitch that stole one of my best friends.
"Any offers?" she asks. "Interviews? Calls?"
"Not yet."
She smirks. I wonder if my failure secretly delights her.
"C'mon, Rose . . ." Emmett groans.
"No, I'm wondering for a reason. Contraband is starting up this new thing and I wanted to see if you'd consider working for it, it's—"
"No." I don't let her finish. She scowls.
"C'mon, Bell. It's not exactly like you have many other options," Emmett interjects.
"Damn, thanks for having my back, Em."
He shrugs.
"Just listen, would you?" she snaps. The claws come out. "We're starting an online blog-formatted site that's based off of our main site. Anyone in LA with a suitable lead can submit information about a celebrity. It'll go through a screening process back at Contraband, and then it'll be submitted to the site under a penname. We'll be paying for submissions."
"You're creating an army of paparazzi. Out of everyone." I conclude.
"Jeez, Bella. Don't need to be so dramatic." She rolls her eyes.
"Also, how is any of that credible? Under a penname?"
She raises her eyebrow.
"Credible? Have you ever read the National Enquirer?" she asks. "We're trying to make money here, Bella. We're not the fucking national news."
"Wow."
"Oh, don't act all surprised. We need a few people to test the system on. We'll pay you a weekly salary because we're in beta. It's not much, but it might get you an apartment that's not Emmett's. Well, with a few roommates anyway."
She says the last of it with a bite.
"I'll consider it."
"How about you consider it right now or we'll get someone else."
"Fine, I'll do it."
"Great." Her grin is toothy, large and unbearable. "Welcome to Contraband."