Disclaimer: Nope, I still don't own it. Yep, it still owns me.

Thanks go to sunflowerfran3759 for being the fastest beta known to mankind. Thank you Fran!

Positions, Inc

Chapter Three: Supper Time and Tangled Tales

Part One

"Edward Anthony Cullen! Get your hand out of those mashed potatoes right this minute. Honestly, Edward, what is wrong with you tonight? I swear your head has been in the clouds ever since you dropped your resume off at the new employment agency this afternoon. How did you make out anyway?"

"I got a job," I said tiredly. I removed my hand from the bowl of mashed potatoes and placed it on my lap. After the day I had with Puss in Boots, I was exhausted.

Upon hearing the news that I have been offered a job, Carlisle rolled out of his chair and dropped to the floor like a fly that had just been swatted.

"Praise Jesus!" He proclaimed to the ceiling. "Take me now Lord, I am ready to go. My prayers have been answered!"

I looked at him lying prostrate on the floor and offered to get him the defibrillator from his office, but he declined with a small smile.

"No thank you, Son. I've made my peace and can accept my fate now that you're gainfully employed. What kind of job did you accept? I hope it's one that will allow you to move out as soon as possible: you're mother and I want to turn your bedroom into a tantric, sexual space," he joked.

Tantric Sex?

Christ, I hoped he was joking. I can just picture him and Ole Esme coming down to the shop to decorate my bedroom in 50 shades of Gray. (Yes, I know what that stupid book is; my mother and her girlfriends are all read it after bible study. I'm serious. After they put the Good Book away, they took out the other good book. It was quite disturbing and possibly sacrilegious. They couldn't wait for the movie to come out, but they had to drive their hypocritical Christian asses to Seattle. "Someone might see us, Esme!")

Anyway, I got so worked up thinking about my mother and father pulling into 1313 Turquoise Drive to go on a little, sex-toy, shopping spree that I proceeded to choke on Esme's Chicken with 40 Cloves of Garlic. Ole Esme's been watching The Barefoot Contessa again; she always gets all fancified whenever Ina entertains one of her charming gay friends on the veranda overlooking the Long Island Sound.

Last week she made Deconstructed Lobster Salad. Carlisle also dropped to the floor that night when she told him how much the lobster cost per pound. I offered to apply the paddles but he declined saying that we couldn't afford the electricity to power them up since my mother used up her monthly budget on the lobster meat. Yes my father is somewhat of a drama queen, but he isn't so much a skinflint, as he is the product of much older parents who were raised during the depression. Nana Cullen is 89 years old next month and she still eats these weird, little, depression meals like Milk Lunch Crackers with sugar and milk for supper, so his frugality comes from that. But the man is a doctor for crying out loud and he makes bank; let me tell you. However, you wouldn't know it by his constant fretting over bills and hand wringing when college tuition is due. Of course he does have three kids in college at the same time, (or did have until recently.)

Anyway, at the sound of my strangled throat, Carlisle resurrected and immediately went into doctor mode. He pounded me hard on my back with a practiced hand. I hacked up the chunk of chicken and one of the forty cloves of garlic into my napkin.

Esme didn't even bat an eyelash at this encounter. Instead she sat back in her seat and called me "vulgar." Apparently my hacking and spewing turned her stomach and she couldn't eat another bite until I removed the offending object from the table and washed my hands.

"Oh, and if you're finished eating, Edward, then please brush your teeth; there's nothing worse than allowing chicken to fester in ones teeth; besides, your breath could use some freshening."

I excused myself from the table and went upstairs to my bathroom and brushed my teeth. I looked at my face in the mirror and sighed. I looked like Friday's turd dressed up for Saturday's market. Christ, what a day this has been, I thought. I really need to start keeping a journal so I can impress Professor Blowhard with my best-selling novel when I get back to Dartmouth. I have a sneaky suspicion that I'll soon be lauded as this generation's Salinger; I rather see myself as a Holden Caulfield type. This reminded me that I'd better return Esme's fifteen dollar lotion to her bathroom before she retired for the night. I wiped my mouth and headed back downstairs.

"I need a cigarette," I overheard my mother state to my dad. "Don't judge." I listened to the kitchen door opening into the Florida room. This is my mother's smoking parlor. It should be noted that my mother doesn't really smoke much. She used to before we were born, but she quit when she got pregnant with Emmett. However, when Em passed his driving test, the first place he drove was to Walgreen's to pick up Ole Esme a pack of Virginia Slim Lights. She claims she needs them for medicinal purposes. I guess my choking on her chicken got her nerves fired up. I can only imagine how many cigs she'll rail if she finds out the details of my new job.

I went back into the kitchen and my father sneaked me half of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I assumed he wasn't a fan of Ina's 40 Cloves of Garlic, but with Carlisle it's hard to know if it's hunger or a sugar craving. That man can sneak a snack faster than you can say Jack Rabbit. Of course he has to be stealthy because my mother only allows herself one ciggie after dinner, which she puffs on dramatically, like she's Bette Davis or something, and he doesn't want to get caught. His efforts to coerce me into joining a life of crime with him failed though, because I am allergic to peanuts, and I reminded him of that with a huff. He only sighed and muttered something about how he's got three sons and they're all allergic to something and how in the hell is he supposed to remember whose throat slams shut over strawberries and who drops down dead when they eat shell fish. I pointed out to him that he's a damn doctor and he's obligated to remember shit like that, but he only gave me a sheepish grin and proceeded to stuff the entire sandwich in his mouth. He downed it with a glass of milk, and asked me if my Epi Pen was still fresh. It is; he wrote me a script when I came back home last month, which luckily I haven't had to use- yet.

"Is she lighting another?" He asked hopefully. I laughed; he's more concerned about being caught snacking than the condition of her lungs. Some doctor he is.

My mother doesn't approve of snacks or desserts except on special occasions. But Doc has a sweet tooth that needs to be tended to on the reg, hence the occasional PB and J and the box of assorted goodies he keeps on the DL from my mother. He moves the box around a lot because Esme is like a bloodhound when it comes to sniffing out his Little Debbie contraband. Last week she found it under my bed when she decided to tackle the dust bunnies that are her arch enemies. I was the unlucky recipient of her triple-ass kick, which she claimed still needed a bit of practice, as she caught her toe on the bed frame when I attempted to leap over the mattress in a futile effort of self preservation. It didn't work out well for either of us; she sprained her pinky toe and I knocked my head on the wall and was practically concussed. I didn't out my Dad though; the man has the right to an oatmeal pie every so often. Besides, I let him know that he owes me one, and he knows that he'll be paying me back for taking the ass-kick and concussion one fine day.

"So, what type of work will you be doing? He asked conversationally. "Is it local?"

"Um, yeah … you remember the old Laundromat in back of the diner?" Dad nodded his head in agreement and reached for the coffee canister. I watched as his hands clawed through the coffee grounds and pulled out a small plastic bag. He looked furtively over his shoulder to see if the Drill Sergeant was watching us, and decided it was safe. He poured a handful of jelly beans into his palm and popped them in his mouth all at the same time.

The door opened with a bang.

"Carlisle! What are you sneaking now? Don't think I didn't see you go to the pantry and make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, Mister. I was watching you like a hawk the whole time. What do you have in your mouth this time? I watched in glee as Carlisle got ripped a new one. A puddle of rainbow colored goo dribbled slightly from the corner of his mouth as he tried in vain to mumble, "Nothing."

Busted.

I decided that now was probably as good a time as any to start weaving my tangled web. "So, I'm going to start my new job tomorrow," I blurt out.

My mother looked up at me with raised brows: "Tomorrow? Isn't that a little soon? I can't believe they were able to place you so quickly."

"Um, yeah … I know it is kind of quick. But, um, I'm actually going to be working at the, er, agency." Esme's face lit up like a Christmas tree.

"At Positions, Inc! Oh, that's wonderful!" She came over to me and made me bend down so she could kiss the top of my head. The woman may be the champion of ass kicks, but she is also extremely affectionate with her boys. I gave her a bear hug and made her squeal; she loves that kind of shit.

"Positions, Inc, huh? Sounds like the name of a porn shop." Carlisle said in amusement. The man is far more astute than I realized.

"Oh Carlisle … stop! As if anyone would open up a sex shop in Forks. The economy is certainly unable to support that type of industry in a small town like this. That's why I have to go to Port Angeles when I want to buy that thing for your …"

"La-la-la-la-la! Hello, this is your son standing here who is trying to tell you about his new position, not to hear you discuss what kind of position you want to put Dad's, um, whatever in. Do you mind?"

"Sorry Son, your mother always gets a little carried away whenever she hears the word 'sex' these days. I blame it on that damn book she's reading in book club and her fluctuating hormones." He let out an exaggerated sigh. "Her estrogen is making its last hurrah and she's determined to hold on to every last bit of it," he said with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

"Oh, Carlisle shut up. The last thing Edward wants to hear about is his mother's hot flashes and night sweats." Esme laughed.

She's got that right.

"So, exactly what is it you'll be doing there?" She asked, expectantly.

"Well, the uh, agency, just opened and they need some support staff to answer the phones and do administrative stuff, like help people work on their resumes. You know, that sort of thing…" I drifted off. The bullshit spewed from my mouth quite naturally. What can I say? It's always been my gift.

"So who is the owner of the agency? Is it someone local?"My mother asked.

I cleared my throat uneasily; how much of the truth do I want to admit? I decided to go for broke and put my chips on the table. "Uh, well, no, she's not exactly a born here-more like a come-back-here. Her name is Isabella Swan."

"Swan? Not Charlie Swan's daughter? Oh, the poor girl! Carlisle, do you remember when his canoe turned over last year? They say he got all caught up in his fishing tackle. It was so sad. We went to his funeral. Of course I knew his ex-wife at one time. Renee and I were friends for about six months or so and then she moved away.

Edward, you remember little Bella from play group?"

Ah, shit. I should have made up a name. It figures; my mother knows just about everyone living or dead in this piss ant town.

Wait a minute … what?

'Little Bella from play group'

What the actual fuck?