Dynamite

“BELLA, I SWEAR TO GOD—WAKE THE FUCK UP OR I WILL BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF YOU!”

Who in the seven circles of Hell was screaming at me like a mofo banshee?

“Alice, that you?” Rosalie grumbled, padding into my room. Ah, that explains it. I rubbed my eyes, still half asleep.

“Yes, it’s me! Bella had better wake up before I feed her some chewy intestines! We have a shoot today, and I will not be late, especially not for Jacques.”

The mention of my third best friend got me a little more alert. “That’s right, the wedding shoot.”

I sounded like chewy on crack, my voice hoarse with sleep.

“Yes, the wedding shoot, and we have to be at the airport in one hour. We are flying to Spain today, god damn it!”

Rosalie laughed and walked out of the room, to fetch clothes, I assume. I cracked an eye open and saw that Alice had already packed my suitcase, and chosen my travelling outfit.

“Okay, okay. I’ll get up, your freaking Majesty.”

“A genoux. I am the ruler.”

“C’est exact, vous-même mon âme.”

Alice cracked a smile, slapping my arm lightly. “Réveillez-vous et je vous promets que nous serons de retour en France en deux jours.”

I was surprised. “Really?”

“Uh huh. Two days, and I promise we will be back home.”

“Yay!”

Mary Alice Brandon, or Alice for short, was almost like my sister, likewise with Rosalie. We had met as young models in Paris, and never looked back, hardly having family to go to. We still lived together in France.

“We have to go. Hurry it up, slowpoke.”

Alice was reasonably normal by now. Another thirty minutes, I was in the car, albeit falling asleep in my seat.

I hardly remembered the flight. I think I slept through it. I only remember Alice waking me up and pointing out the gorgeous Spanish landscape.

We were getting off of the airplane before I could even blink.

Refreshed after a cup of coffee, brewed in our hotel room, I was ready to work. We were whisked off after an hour down to the lobby, where I was painted with makeup and squashed into a strapless wedding dress, complete with a corset.

Alice and Rosalie stepped out in bridesmaid dresses only a few minutes earlier than myself. Jacques, one of my second oldest friends, had rushed us down to the gorgeous beach, which had been closed off for the day.

“So, Jacques,” I teased. “Who would the lucky groom happen to be.”

“Ah, but Miss Bella, he is quite ze beauty. A shame. He has a reputation for ze beautiful ladies, but not ze Jacques. Never ze Jacques.”

I chuckled. “Your day will come.”

“But it is unfortunate, for zis boy is handsome. Very handsome.”

I chuckled. Jacques, who was half my height, was one of my very best girlfriends, in a sense. Meaning, he was gay. He had come out of the closet, literally and metaphorically, when he started his own fashion design business. These days, he was a photographer.

“Oh, Bella, he iz eer! Take care of dees boy, will you?”

“I solemnly swear, Jacques.”

“Zat is my girl! Come, come, we must begin ze shoot. Zis will be beautiful.”

The day followed with some very interesting photographs. Anyone had to admit, Edward was kind of handsome. Okay, he was a God. The most interesting part was when we had to kiss: Jacques told us to tone it down because, and I quote: “Zis is not ze prom night! We must not be carried away!”

I was utterly baffled, however, when at the end of the day, after barely any chatter between each other, he handed me a piece of paper. I unfolded it. On the inside, was Edward Cullen’s phone number.