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The Artist's Model

AU All Human. Edward Masen is a painter in Paris known for his sensual nude portraits when he stumbles across Bella Swan.

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Chapter 2: Opening

I awoke to lengthening shadows with the words, tender, innocent, spinning in my head, trying to morph into an ideal girl that didn't exist. Checking my digital clock, I was astonished to see that it was so late already. I didn't normally sleep for more than eight hours at a time.

Scrambling, I quickly dug out an almost unwrinkled shirt and the first jeans my hands touched. I decided to forgo the shower, deciding Emmett would literally kill me if I was late. A quick look in my bathroom mirror assured me that my hair was impossible, and so I grabbed my keys and left.

Other than my studio, the Volvo was the only other place I felt safe in, away from prying eyes. The muted purr of its six cylinders greeted me. I sighed lovingly, caressing its leather seats, still in their original condition. I had bought the car with my first commissioned painting, the only time I'd spent money recklessly.

The gallery's parking lot had flooded onto the streets where men and women dressed in elegant clothing littered the steps. I idled by the curb, wondering how many people attending were Emmett's friends and how many were actual critics or art appreciators.

I breathed deeply through me nose, hoping to shake my irrational fear of strangers. Killing the engine, I got out slowly. Hesitantly, I moved toward the front doors where a young couple loitered. They stared at me curiously, but I couldn't bring myself to meet their eyes. I found myself slipping behind the cold façade I'd hid my true self in for too many years.

Emmett's boisterous laughter reached me before anything else. I felt myself getting pulled into a solid mass, patted roughly in the back, and finally being able to breathe when the person shoved me away.

"Edward! Good to see you again." Never mind that he'd seen me just two days ago on a much needed caffeine hunt. Naturally, his booming voice had caught the attention of the crowd. He winked, perhaps sensing my discomfort and relishing it. A newcomer entered and Emmett turned his attention to him. I melted into the wall.

The phone was by my ear in a second.

"Rosalie, can you please come here?" I gave her directions and shut my phone, praying she would come, that she would understand.

Carlisle had introduced me to Rosalie a few months ago. Then, I thought he was just doing his duty as my sponsor and mentor by finding me appropriate subject matter. Looking back, I understood now that it had been a ploy to help me find tenderness.

It was a futile effort. Rose was exactly the kind of model I wanted—sexy, demanding, unattainable. She had never modeled before, but she joked that being an artist's model sounded deliciously scandalous. I knew that at least half of the artistic community was convinced we were having a passionate affair.

Vixen Rosalie was supposed to be the subject of my series, but obviously Carlisle wanted to find a different model.

I watched as Rosalie's flash BMW screeched to a stop and she stepped out, the target of every man's lust. Her lips had been painted a bold red that on any other woman would've seemed tacky or overdone, but suited her perfectly. Her blonde hair was coiffed in luscious curls down her back, her dress flaunting her flawless body. Even I, nearly asexual in my habits, had to admit she was gorgeous.

Everyone stared as she walked towards me and planted a kiss on my cheek.

"Thanks for coming," I sighed.

She smirked. "Don't think I wouldn't have crashed anyways. I hear your friend is quite the looker. Is that him?"

I rolled my eyes. How typically Rosalie. And yet, she was my only friend of the fairer sex. Despite her ample sex appeal, despite the brains behind her beauty, she still remained unattainable. Maybe that was what drew us together—she could not be had, and I would not be had.

"I'll take that as a yes."

She stayed by my side—it was one of Rosalie's best traits: loyalty—even though I knew she longed to cross the room where Emmett stood, still oblivious to her presence. We made small talk. I told her about Carlisle's wishes and she understood that she would be out of a job.

"It doesn't bother me much. With this body, I can get me a job as a model almost anywhere," she laughed. I wished I had her confidence.

It was hard to believe that this woman had once considered me a romantic interest—she had a thing for artists, apparently. Something about their "tortured souls"—and had stuck by me as a friend. Rosalie knew that a great half of the world thought she was a conceited and stuck up snob, but in reality, she had a fear of becoming too close to someone. It took one to know one.

I was prattling for a while when I stopped mid-sentence, sensing her disinterest. I never saw her staring at Emmett, but I knew she was surreptitiously watching. I sighed, exasperated. "Come on. I'll introduce you."

She grabbed my arm, a smile fixated on her face. "No. I never seek anyone out. Besides, he's coming now."

I looked behind her and saw that Emmett was indeed making his way through the crowd, ditching his former companions. How did she see him coming with her back facing him?

"Edward, aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?" He leered at Rosalie who still wasn't looking at him.

"Rosalie, Emmett. Emmett, Rosalie." I waved my hand casually between them knowing that a more formal introduction wouldn't be necessary. I had a feeling he was just here to find out of Rosalie would feed his sexual appetite.

Rosalie winked at him. He blinked, dazzled. I choked back a laugh.

"So, Mr. Emmett, tell me about your art," Rosalie purred, sidling up to him.

He grinned slyly and slipped an arm around her waist. "I specialize in women…" I heard him say before they strolled away and were swallowed by the crowd. Their heads were already touching and I made a mental note to not seek them out for the next hour or so while they had fun copulating.

I wandered around the room, scrutinizing Emmett's new work. Everyone else was sipping champagne, chatting, forgetting that this was an art exhibition. I was filled with envy at how Emmett's subject matter was so diverse and yet unified by his unique sense of humour. Surely Carlisle never had to have a talk with Emmett about taking things in a new direction. I could grudgingly admit that his work far outstripped mine.

At a particularly breathtaking piece, the jealousy surged into a hot and mean monster that I couldn't swallow. How was it fair that Emmett had been blessed with rugged good looks, with creativity, with social skills when I lacked in everything? How could God or any other higher being have gifted one person with so much greatness when too many people were below average? True, Emmett had no ability to love, but that was by choice, not a bitter memory of a heart long gone.

It was petty of me to hate one of my few friends, and it made me question, was my spite and scorn the reason that no one could find it in them to love me back?

A glance backward told me that most people were paired off into couples. I saw a man tuck a strand of hair behind his girl's ear, the simple gesture so innocent but intimate that I had to tear my eyes away. Abruptly, my heart ached to find a filling for the void, to find the damn tenderness that Carlisle found in Esme, that my father had found in my mother. In that moment, I felt all my animosity of women and relationships fade away, filled with nothing but acute pain of my loneliness. The moment passed, and I was able to breathe again, and I buried myself once again in my resentment.

One person besides me appeared to be alone. Her head was bent, examining a bizarre sculpture that appeared to be constructed of straws and plastic bags. Her mahogany hair acted as a curtain to hide her face from me. She didn't seem to be experiencing any inner turmoil. It was then that I noticed her scrawling notes down on a pad of paper. I immediately lost interest. Members of the press were persistent at best, but most often persistently annoying.

I let me feet carry me around, all the while craning my neck to find someone I knew. There was Tyler Crowley, the well-known architect, but he was more of an acquaintance than an actual friend. Besides, he was a terrible conversationalist; even worse than me.

Where were Rosalie and Emmett? It had to have been an hour already. Nope; the phone obnoxiously blinked its white numbers at me, letting me know it was only eight. I was wasting my time here. Surely Emmett wouldn't blame me for leaving early. Still, it would be best to say goodbye.

I nearly hit the send button before remembering that Emmett was with Rosalie, which meant they were doing unmentionables and would not want to be interrupted. I slipped my phone back into my pocket.

Glancing up, I re-ascertained my position. My wandering feet had led me to a deserted hallway. I began pacing through the empty halls, my footsteps echoing loudly in the empty space. Every few minutes, I would stop to impatiently check my phone for the time. Minutes ticked by, not nearly as fast as I wished they would move.

Unexpectedly, I felt another body smash into mine, the scent of freesias captivating my senses before my arms tightened around her body automatically, saving her body from meeting the cold tiled floors.

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