AN: So yeah, I totally posted early . . .I have zero patience. Plus, I work at a CPA firm, and it's April 15 and well. . .I could use a few good thoughts :)

I know a lot of you are mad at Edward right now, and I won't lie; you really SHOULD be. But there is redeemable parts in him, I promise, and you'll begin to see those. However, it's not going to be this chapter. This chapter, we meet some of our other characters :) (if any of you read TDIG, you should know how much I love me a good Rose/Emmett subplot)

Thanks to JosieSwan, who holds my hand and helps me manage my Red Sox ulcer, and who is the most fuckawesome beta ever. Read her new story, In the Shadow of Ursa Major--it's amazing!

Emmett

"You're still here." The last person I had expected to see still at the club after I'd gotten Edward and his "date" to the hotel was Rosalie on the ragged couch, her bare feet tucked under her, and her long, blond hair gathered into a ponytail. Her makeup had mostly worn off, and she looked far too young to still be up at 3 AM. If I was being really honest with myself, I was way too pleased to see her, and yet I wished she was already in bed, getting her beauty sleep like the good girl she wasn't. She deserved better than this life, but she seemed determined to choose it at all costs.

"You should get some sleep," I said when she said nothing to me, only followed me with those eyes that everyone else thought were an ice cold blue, but that I saw were hot and deeply vulnerable. I'd done some bad things in my life, and I'd decided that this must be my karma—cursed to truly see the girl that my best friend was doing everything to fuck over.

"You don't like me very much," Rose said in a soft, quiet voice. "I don't know why; everyone likes me."

"That's not it," I said shortly. "I don't dislike you, exactly." I only want to take you away from all this ugliness. From all the ugliness you subject yourself to, over and over again. I want to kill Edward for putting those black circles under your eyes.

"He's with that other girl, isn't he?" The question was casual, almost as if she didn't care, but she was tired and upset and she couldn't quite mask the catch in her voice. "You took her to him," she said accusatorily, as if it was my fault that her heart was being stomped on by the king of all heartbreakers.

"I do what Edward tells me to do. And yes, she's with him tonight." I was mad she was mad, and instead of internalizing it as I usually did, I took it out on her and told her the blatant truth. I should have kept it to myself, but I figured it was as much her business as anyone's who Edward slept with. And maybe, finally, it would be enough to make her stop this puppy-dog act.

She was picking at a ratty hole in her black jeans, twisting the threads in her fingers and refusing to look up at me. "You don't have to hide it from me. I know what he's like."

"And yet you're still here," I said wryly.

She looked up then, those blue eyes burning with unshed tears and so much pain that I wanted to shake her, hard, and demand that she let me take her away. "It's not exactly a choice," she told me bitterly.

Unfortunately, I understood all about the frustration and the agony of wanting someone even when you knew better, so I just nodded.

"I want to leave here. I want to tell him to go fuck himself. But I can't." The raw pain in her voice was fucking killing me, and I wanted to kill Edward for treating this girl, and every other girl, as if she had no worth—or maybe he just acted in accordance to how they presented themselves. Just once, I thought, I wanted to see some girl make him fucking work for it. But no, they all just threw themselves at his feet. Was it any wonder that he treated them like a dime a dozen when they behaved that way?

I didn't know what to tell her. I knew there was a shitload of things that I wanted to say, but I couldn't. So I changed the subject, pretending I didn't see her surreptitiously wipe a tear out of her eye before it could drip down onto her cheek. Rosalie wanted so desperately to maintain the illusion she was tough and she could take on all of Edward's shit, and I wasn't about to let her know that I'd seen through her act from the very beginning.

"They're closing up here soon. I just came back to get some of Edward's stuff."

Rose laughed shakily. "What would he do without you? Who would be there to pick him up after he attacks random British celebrities, or bring him his booze, or find him ladies to fuck?"

I shoved my hands in my pockets so she couldn't see the fists that formed at her opinion of me. Did she think I did this because I enjoyed cleaning up after Edward's shit? Dealing with this crap every day was my penance, of a sort, and I did it because I had to do it. And because if I wasn't there to pick up the pieces, I wasn't sure Edward could stay put together. Carlisle's patience was fraying, and I was the only one that Edward even remotely listened to these days.

"That's right," I said evenly. "I'm Edward's security... and his pimp." Though why he needs one when he has you, I have no idea.

"Speaking of security," I continued, "where's Santiago? He's supposed to be keeping an eye on you." He shouldn't be letting you stay out like this, torturing yourself with images of what Edward is doing to that blond whore. Or rather, what he's letting that blond whore do to him.

"He went to get the car." Rose uncoiled from the dirty, ripped leather couch and I noticed that she'd slipped off her heels and I winced as she padded across the even dirtier floor in her bare feet.

"That's not very safe," I said almost automatically, before I could stop myself. I wasn't Rose's protector or her boyfriend. I wasn't even her security detail—that was Santiago's job. But I'd said it anyway because I perversely cared whether she was safe or not—an inclination I'd vainly tried to cure myself of.

It didn't help that Edward was beginning to rapidly tire of the statuesque blond beauty, and had decided, without any input from me, that I would be the perfect person to take the heat off him. What I had yet to tell him was that I had no intention of touching her. She was beautiful, famous and so emotionally unhealthy that it was a wonder she was able to function normally. And if she had any idea that the man she claimed to love was trying to foist her off on his security detail, she would totally fall apart.

Though she thought I hated her; I cared too much to ever let her know how little Edward thought of her.

Rose shrugged, clearly caring about as much for her personal safety as she cared for her emotional well-being. Otherwise, she never would have gotten into this spiral of lust and rejection with Edward.

"Is it because I'm famous? Because I'm a Hale?"

I inwardly groaned. Somewhere along the line Rose had gotten the idea that I disliked her. Edward thought it was celebrity awe. What neither of them knew was that it was simple self-preservation. It was hard enough to lust after her; to get involved with such a damaged, vulnerable girl would be akin to throwing myself out of an airplane without a parachute.

I leaned down and started packing up one of Edward's guitars. "You know I don't care about shit like that."

"Exactly." I tensed, feeling that she was close behind me. Way too fucking close. I refused to turn around and let her know that she'd unnerved me. The moment she realized that I was vulnerable at all to her, she'd never leave me alone.

"At first, I thought it was because you're Edward's security and so you see famous people every day, but then I realized you wouldn't care even if you were just a regular guy off the street."

"True," I said, screwing a top on a bottle of Jameson, and trying to mop up some of the spill on the table. I wasn't his fucking maid, but I hated people seeing the chaos that Hurricane Edward left behind.

"So why do you do this then?" This conversation was getting into dangerous territory, and I finally turned around to face her, ready to demand that the interrogation end. But she was so damn close, her eyes wide and so, unfuckingbelievably blue that I paused, the words caught in my throat. I swallowed hard, and the corner of her lips tilted into a smile.

"You don't want to tell me, do you?" Flustered, she broke eye contact and twisted one of the rings on her tanned fingers. "I forgot," she said a bit ruefully, "you hate me."

Suddenly it seemed worse that she continue to think that than have this conversation. So I answered, cursing my inability to keep my fucking mouth shut the entire time. "It's a job; it pays the bills."

Her head cocked to the side a little, the fall of straight blond hair shifting, which almost instantaneously set my hands to twitching. I wanted to feel it, to see if it felt as soft in my hands as it looked. I wanted to strip her clothes off and see her breasts peeking through it. Clearing my throat, I reminded my suddenly hard cock that regardless of Edward's "permission," there would be no nakedness happening tonight. Or any night.

"Did you always want to do this?" she asked, that same smile blooming across her features, and I was reminded why everyone liked Rosalie Hale. Even though she was rich as fucking Croesus, she was sweet and kind, and of course, irrevocably emotionally fucked.

"Fuck no." I gave a short laugh. "I actually have half a PhD in history."

Her eyes widened and I could nearly the feel the surprise radiating off her. "Really?"

"It's not that shocking," I grumbled. "Just because a guy has some bulk doesn't mean he's a fucking idiot."

"No, no," she interrupted me. "That isn't what I meant. I guess I just meant . . .if you wanted to do that, how come you're Edward's security guard."

"I already told you, it pays the bills." I would have told just about any other woman off about ten minutes ago, but Rosie's sweet interest was way too fucking tempting to resist. She was like my kryptonite and I was frozen, immobile—too far under her spell to turn away.

"What do you mean, half a PhD? Does that mean you're not Dr. McCarty?"

I shook my head, wondering how I could possibly spin this so I didn't look like such a fucking loser. It was bad enough that I was Emmett McCarty, from the backwoods of Tennessee, and she was Rosalie fucking Hale.

"I didn't finish," I simply said. "Stuff got in the way. I got stupid."

Rose nodded, as if she understood perfectly. As if she could ever really understand. She had so much money that she could start and never finish a thousand doctorate degrees, if she wanted.

"And now you're with Edward." She paused, going back to her ring-twisting. "I know," she continued, her voice growing softer. "You don't think I do, but I know. Edward's trying to push me away."

My insides chilled to the temperature of a deep freeze. "You know."

She nodded. "I'd have to be blind not to realize that he's tired of me—maybe he never was even interested enough to grow tired of me now. The details don't matter. But I do know he doesn't want me anymore.."

"He said something?" I asked sharply, beyond irrationally angry that despite my insistence on taking control of the situation so that Rose wouldn't get hurt, Edward had gone and blabbed his fucking mouth.

"No. He didn't have to. You know, everyone just assumes I'm stupid. But I'm actually rather observant."

I was just grateful that she didn't know that he'd practically gifted her to me—tied her up in a ribbon and handed her over like a present on Christmas morning. But Rosalie wasn't a parcel that could be given. She was a free woman, able to make her own choices. If only she would start making some good ones.

She was quiet for a moment longer, looking at me questioningly, as if she was waiting for me to respond. As if she was waiting for me to tell her what I thought of the idea.

"Uhhhh," I stammered, not at all how to tell a woman that you wanted her beyond reason, but knew better than to be handed her like she was a fucking slave.

"You don't have to, you know," she said finally, breaking the silence that stretched between us. Her voice had that same bitter edge as before, and in that moment, I hated myself and all the fucking mistakes I'd made. Not just about Rosalie, but about everything. Maybe if my own life wasn't so screwed up, I could endeavor to deserve her, but as it was, I was going to have to pass.

But maybe I could do one thing for her before I sent her away.

"Listen," I said, grabbing her shoulders before she could turn away from me, hide her suddenly damp eyes. "Listen to me, Rosalie. You aren't fucking property. You're flesh and blood—a person who needs to make her own choices. You can't just let Edward pass you out like Halloween candy. Stand up for yourself and tell him off. He fucking deserves it."

Rose gaped at me, but the words kept coming—word vomit that had built up inside me for too fucking long.

"There's got to be some self-worth inside you. Something that makes you want to fucking punch him—no, fucking castrate him for treating you this way. You're beautiful and kind, and way too good for an asshole like him. You're way too good for me either, by the way, though . . ." I stopped just in time, before I blurted out the hidden litany of how I desired her.

But she knew what I'd been about to say. I saw the realization dawn on her face. "You don't hate me," she whispered, "you hated that I let him . . .I let him. . ." She clearly couldn't put the abuse into words but I was at least grateful that she realized it was total shit. "You. . ."

We stood there for a long moment, staring at each other. "You deserve better." I said it firmly, with much finality as I could muster.

She shook her head slowly, and I could see the thoughts rolling around in her head, like rough diamonds being polished. And then, suddenly, one moment she was a step or two away, and then next her arms were flung around my neck, her body was plastered against mine, and her mouth touched my lips.

I detonated like the fucking atomic bomb. She tasted sweet like strawberry candy and tart like lemons and vodka. I groaned into her mouth as she wrapped herself around me, those long limbs climbing me like a fucking vine. My arms curled around her waist, and she was so unbelievably tiny, I could almost circle it with my hands. Her hair fell between us, brushing against my cheek as we kissed and I couldn't help but groan into her mouth. I had dreamt about this way too many times to stop now that I knew how good it felt.

But sanity returned faster than I'd thought possible, and slowly, reluctantly, I lifted my mouth off hers, taking one last hard nip of her swollen bottom lip. "Rosie," I said and my voice sounded harsh, and thick, like I'd been running a marathon, instead of just kissing a beautiful girl. "We shouldn't be doing this."

She didn't say a word, just looked at me with those unfathomable eyes of hers, and then she simply said, her voice deceptively calm, "That was for you—not for Edward." And then she turned and walked out, leaving me speechless in her wake. Neverfuckingmind about Edward being the hurricane—Rosalie was twice as powerful and had brought me to my knees.

"Fuck," I muttered to myself. I had to admit I'd judged Edward earlier for losing it with that British wanker, but at least he'd had a guy to beat on—or attempt to beat on—when he'd needed it. As the hot lava of my temper heated and then boiled over, I didn't have a convenient whipping boy. And so I let my fist fly, punching through the air, and I swore again as it hit the hard concrete of the wall. "Shit. Fuck." I yelled now. "Damn it all to hell."

A long hour later, just as dawn was creeping across the dark sky, I walked down the hallway to my hotel room. Even though I'd been with Edward for almost a year, my body still rebelled at the all-nighters followed by sleeping in until noon. When I'd been at Boston University, I'd loved waking at dawn to go for an early morning jog. Now the only time I ever saw the sun rise was when I hadn't been to bed yet.

Slipping my key card out of the pocket of my jeans, I slid it in the door, turned the handle and froze.

Even though the room was still dark, I could clearly see a mane of blonde hair peeking out from under the covers. Rosalie.

I crept farther into the room, slipping my shoes off so that my stocking feet made no sound on the carpeted floor, but I didn't think she would have noticed even if I'd turned the lights on—she was soundly asleep, her body curled around a pillow, her hair spread out like a golden fan on the pillow.

For about half a second I wondered how she'd possibly gotten into my room, but then decided that it was pretty obvious—she was Rosalie Hale, and this was a Hale hotel. She probably hadn't even had to bribe the front desk clerk to give her a keycard. They'd probably done it with a smile on their faces for the daughter of their boss.

Instead, a more important question, I thought as I unzipped my jeans and walked another step closer to the king-sized bed, was why Rosalie had chosen to share my bed with me. Was it because of Edward? Or, like the kiss, was it because of me? I told myself that I was being an overly emotional prick, but I couldn't help the tiny surge of wonder at the thought that perhaps Rosalie Hale had, after far too long chasing that ass, decided to chase me instead.

Unlike Edward, I wasn't a famous rock star or pretty or rich. I was just Emmett McCarty, from the backwoods of Tennessee—and though I'd done everything I could to eradicate the twang from my speech, I knew it was still there, hiding in the background, ready to betray me at any moment. I'd grown up in a trailer park and Rose had grown up in a penthouse, and though I was an educated, intelligent man and desperately wanted to believe that the disparity of our two lives meant nothing, I wasn't stupid enough to believe it.

Princesses, I told myself as I carefully peeled back the covers on the empty half of the bed, didn't fall for stable boys.

As if she knew my thoughts and was defying them one fucking act at a time, Rose rolled over almost the instant that I settled my much heavier weight onto the mattress. I froze again, hating the awkwardness that surged through me at the thought she'd woken up and I'd have to find something to say to the woman in my bed. But Rose's eyes, those incredibly ethereal blue windows to a damaged soul, remained closed even as her body turned towards mine. I held my breath as her arms reached for me, and curled around my upper bicep. In her sleep, she sighed, and her lips curled up into a small smile.

It both pleased me inordinately and scared the ever loving shit out of me that I had never once seen her smile that way for Edward. Of course, I'd never seen her in bed with him either, but I wanted to believe, perversely, that what seemed to be starting between us had nothing to do with what she'd had with Edward. As I drifted off to sleep, the scent of her drifting through my fading consciousness, I realized that this wasn't altogether a selfish desire—I wanted her to shed all that ugliness that she'd put herself through like a skin, and emerge new and fresh and happy.

The next morning I woke up as the sun streamed into the room. As I heard the shower turn on, I realized how close I'd come to letting my guard down for her to creep under. I never, I realized as I turned over, rubbing my sleep-fogged eyes, should have let her stay. I should have woken her up, no matter how peaceful she looked, and insisted that she go to her own damn bed.

Now, we were going to have to face each other, and I was going to have to demand Rosalie tell me why she'd come to my room last night instead of to her own.

The shower turned off, while I was halfway out of bed, and awkwardly I pulled the sheet back up over my boxers. I was 26 fucking years old, but this woman made me feel like a green boy. I was studiously studying the 500 count sheets as the bathroom door opened, and I heard her footsteps on the carpeted floor.

"Good morning," she said, almost shyly, and I looked up, pretending as if was completely surprised to see her in front of me. And Jesus fucking Christ, she was wearing only a bathrobe, her face clean and dewy, her wet hair hanging in damp tangles around her face. Inconveniently, I was instantly aroused. I shifted, moving the blanket over my cock so that she wouldn't notice and pounce—because as far as I knew, that was the main reason she was here.

"Hey."

"So," Rose said, twisting her fingers together. "I assume you were pretty surprised to see me here last night . . . "

I nodded. Surprised would be the understatement of the fucking century. I probably would have been less astonished to see a llama in my bed.

"I hadn't intended to be asleep when you showed up, but it was late and well. . .I was tired, I guess . . ." she trailed off, and I figured she was trying to put off the moment she had to tell me what the fuck she'd been doing in my bed.

"Yeah, about that," I said, breaking in, "I was tired too. And I wasn't expecting to have my bed already occupied."

"I'm sorry," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper, and I instantly regretted my harsh words.

"Don't be," I told her. "It's alright. I didn't mind."

"Really?" I cursed myself as she looked at me like I'd just given her the stars and the moon and the sun. Every time I told myself that I had to keep her at arm's length for her own safety and my sanity, she managed to either sneak in or just plain batter down the wall I kept between us.

A knock on the door interrupted us, and I stiffened. Please god, I thought, please let that not be Edward demanding something.

"I ordered breakfast," she said, that same shy tone creeping into her voice. "To say. . .thanks, I guess. For not kicking me out last night."

I mentally cursed Edward for being the world's biggest douchebag and totally wrecking this sweet girl. Nobody should be that frightened of displeasing someone.

I permitted myself to give her a brilliant, reassuring grin. "That was sweet of you."

"Let me just get the door," Rose said, fumbling with the tie on her robe. Her hands went to her throat, and I could see her pulling the edges of the terrycloth together, attempting to cover up as much of her skin as she could. She was tall, but thin, and the robe already enveloped her. I'd only been able to see a tiny wedge of pale gold skin dusted with freckles, though god knew it had been enough to make me want her back in the bed almost instantly.

I heard muted voices at the door, but decided against making an appearance. For a woman who'd snuck into my bed last night—all in all, a fairly ballsy move—Rose sure seemed shy and awkward around me. Just about as awkward as I seemed around her. Of course, I was used to watching her try to play the tough groupie and fail monumentally at it, though I was the only one who seemed to see through the cracks in her armor. It constantly astounded me that anyone around her actually bought into the fallacy. To me, it seemed so incredibly obvious it was all just an act.

A minute later, Rose rolled a cart filled with covered dishes into the room, and stopped it near the tiny table near the window. "Hungry?" she asked, pulling lids off the plates. The aroma of eggs and bacon and sausage filled the air and I was up and out of bed before I remembered that I was just wearing boxers and a t-shirt. The moment Rose realized it, she blushed, and glanced away.

This, I thought as I sat down across from her, was getting stranger and stranger. How could the girl who I knew had fucked Edward Cullen a million different ways suddenly be so shy around me? I chewed a piece of bacon thoughtfully as she poured orange juice and coffee, her robe closed up so tightly that even that tiny wedge of freckled skin had disappeared. I told myself that it was better that I not even be tempted, but I couldn't help but feel a tiny twinge of disappointment.

Rose didn't even try to resume the conversation we'd been in the middle of, and I didn't either. I'd decided to wait until an opportune moment to broach the subject again. But right now I could smell food, and my brain went on autopilot.

We were halfway through our mostly silent breakfast—I had offered my observations on the excellent quality of the sausage, and she'd asked me if I preferred scrambled or fried eggs—when suddenly Rose's fork clattered to her fork. I looked up from spreading jam on my English muffin to see her staring at my bruised, battered knuckles in astonishment. Other than a bit of soreness and a twinge of pain whenever I opened or closed my hand, I'd almost totally forgotten about the little wall punching incident from the night before. Of course, remembering that I'd punched the wall dredged up the reason why I'd done so, and I shifted in my chair, acutely aware that I was again hard for the woman across the table from me.

"What happened?" she asked, clearly upset and no doubt imagining the worst. "You didn't get in a fight, did you? With Edward?"

I leaned back in my chair, crossing my arms over my chest. "Why did you come to my room last night?"

She paused, in the middle of raising her orange juice to her lips. "That's not fair," she whined, but I thought I could see a ghost of a smile on her face as she sipped from the glass.

I shrugged. "Never said I'd play fair."

She fidgeted with a salt shaker, looking at her plate. "I. . .I thought about what you said, after I left."

"About?" I prompted when she paused for a moment too long.

"About Edward. About how I wasn't an object to be passed from man to man, without a thought to my own preference in the matter."

I raised an eyebrow. "And you sneaking into my room last night is you 'not being passed from man to man?'"

She raised her eyes and met my stare head on. That was the girl I was used to seeing backstage and at parties when other women tried to encroach on what she considered her territory—or rather, what she apparently used to consider her territory.

"I'm not sure why I kissed you," she said, thoughtfully, and I knew this was the truth—it wasn't some bullshit story that she'd concocted to twist me harder around her little finger—"but I knew that once I kissed you, it didn't have anything to do with Edward. I realized that I'd been watching you. And listening to you. And wanting to talk to you. For longer than I'd thought. And I figured," she shrugged, clearly trying for nonchalant, despite that her voice was low and intense and sincere, "it was time I did something about what I wanted."

I didn't know what to say in the face of such unvarnished honesty. I wanted to tell her that again that I didn't deserve her, and that I had things I had to do—that I had a life to sort out first and a ton of shit that I had to wade through to do that. But instead of telling her all the reasons why I wished she'd never decided to do something about what she wanted, I told her why I'd punched the wall.

"I punched the wall," I said, changing subjects smoothly, "because I've wanted you for longer than I can possibly remember, and I've done everything I can to stay away because I'm no good for you. And you just made it pretty fucking impossible last night."

Rosalie's mouth formed an "O" of surprise. "Even when I was slumming it with Edward?"

I grimaced. "Well, I hate to break it to you but you're still kind of slumming it with him."

She looked confused. "I don't understand. I'm not with him right now; I'm with you."

"Maybe," I said reasonably, though I was already telling myself that I was a total fucking idiot, "but not exactly. Have you said anything to Edward?"

"Of course not," she said, frowning. "When would I have had time to do that?"

I forced myself to take a drink of coffee. "That's my point exactly. You are going from Edward to me, almost as if you were passed off. But you're passing yourself off."

I could see my words hitting her like bombs, and I hated that I believed she deserved the truth. I wanted to lie and tell her that I wanted her right now, screw if she was almost warm from Edward's bed. But I knew better—and I knew both of us deserved better than that.

"I see," she said, her voice low and hurt. "You don't want me after all. You don't want his seconds."

"No," I said patiently. "I do want you. I just want you enough to wait until you can put this poisonous, ugly thing with Edward behind you first."

Rose twisted her hands in her lap, then looked up at me, her eyes so blue they took my breath away. Even with in a bathrobe at least two sizes too big, no makeup, and her hair hanging in limp, almost-dry tendrils around her face, she was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. And I was effectively turning her down. It's for the best, I told myself. You have an obligation.

"Okay," she said. "I can do that. Give me a few weeks."

"Sure." I smiled warmly at her, except the warmth didn't reach my heart. I was pretty damn sure that a few weeks wouldn't cut it. I wasn't even sure she could honestly tell Edward off in a few years. But a guy could hope, right?

"Finish your breakfast," she said with mock sternness. "And I'm going to ring for some ice for your hand. It must hurt like a bitch."

I flexed it absentmindedly as she rose and went to the phone on the desk. "It could be worse," I observed. "Things could always be worse."