Note: Goddess divine Stephenie Meyer owns everything. I just borrow the characters. If I owned them, I'd never let Edward come out and play. Edward Cullen does, however, own me.

The Inspiration

Chapter 2: Not A Starving Artist

Edward

The blank, white canvas was mocking me. It was fucking mocking me. Just sitting there on that stupid, goddamn easel and mocking me.

You don't have it any more, Mr. Never Was Creative.

"Shut it, you," I hissed out at it.

"Talking to me?" the bottle blonde said from behind the easel.

I rolled my eyes so she couldn't see me. Of course she thought I was talking to her. She thought everything was about her. I mentioned how I wanted to have Thai for dinner and she flatly refused, saying that Thai food wasn't her favorite. Whatever. I'm sure I could mention something about the indigenous people of Namibia and she'd turn it into a comment about herself.

So why did I keep her around and not just throw her out on her 'perfect' ass? Because as much as I fucking hated to admit it, a large part of why I was so damn famous was due to her. Great. Not that I'd ever actually admit to her that fact. Like she needed any more fuel for her already Texas-sized ego.

She did plenty well without me saying anything.

"Edddddddddd-ward," she whined.

I sighed loudly and put my paintbrush down on the stool beside my easel. Wasn't like I was going to get anywhere on this new painting like this.

"What?" I said, poking my head around the canvas.

Any other man would be entranced by the sight standing before me, but in a lot of ways I wasn't every other man.

Rosalie was what most men considered their ultimate fantasy girl. I'd been told plenty of times before as to that fact. I'm pretty sure ninety percent or more of the art community thought we were fucking like monkeys between me painting her, but they couldn't be more wrong.

Sure there was that one night I had a little too much to drink after I made my first major sale, but that really hadn't gone anywhere.

We'd been hanging out in my loft, downing champagne like water and I think the bubbles and the alcohol went to my head way to fast. I may have not had beer goggles in the literal sense, but when Rose advanced on me I didn't have much willpower to give her my traditional answer until she'd snaked her hand into my pants and was about five seconds away from pulling my cock out.

The second her cold, clammy hands had snaked around the head of my cock I'd sobered up damn plenty to come to my senses and jerk away from her.

She'd given me the silent treatment for a month after that. Sure, she'd still posed for me because she sure as hell wasn't going to give up the possibility of being in another one of the up and coming EC's paintings, but there wasn't much more interaction beyond that.

Best month of my life, if you ask me.

I didn't have to listen to her whinings and half shrill voice that cut through me like a hot knife through soft butter. I swear that girl had the ability to make my balls actually crawl into my body with one shrill cackle.

I'd actually considered buying her a ball gag to wear while I was painting, lying to her and telling her it was a theme piece so she'd actually shove it in her overly pouty mouth.

Lips any man would pay ten grand to have wrapped around their cock I refused to let anywhere near me if I could get away with it.

Rosalie was the classic statuesque blonde model. Feminine legs and hips with a slender waist and decent sized breasts. She'd told me the size of them one time, proudly naming off her measurements. Just another thing out of her mouth I ignored. Besides, I think she fudged a little with her weight. There was no way she was 107 pounds. I just knew not to question them because I liked my dick still attached to my body.

She had long blonde hair that shimmered under my studio lights and was slightly wavy at the ends. She kept it long because she liked to be able to flip it over her shoulder as she huffed away from whatever situation she deemed beneath her, which happened more often than not.

Rosalie happened into my life in a rather innocuous way actually.

For the longest time I'd used women that I'd encountered in my daily life as models. Some where prettier than others. Some had where stick thin and some where soft and feminine.

I painted them all nude.

There was something about the soft lines of a woman's naked body that enchanted me. I liked to see how they covered themselves up instinctually, especially the women who'd never been nude in front of someone who wasn't their lover or doctor.

Though granted some of these women had been my lovers at some point. Short-lived as such, but yes I had a propensity to paint women who were closer to me emotionally. Sometimes the sex happened before modeling and sometimes it happened after. And then there was that one girl who I just couldn't wait any longer and I threw my brush down and fucked her right in the middle of her session. Unfortunately that particular woman was dumb as a fucking rock and couldn't carry a conversation if her life depended on it.

Needless to say she didn't model for me again.

I always looked for something more in my models. A twinkle in their eye. The way their coy smile lured me in. The graceful arch of a neckline or the way I could practically see into their heads and read their thoughts through their eyes. I was a particular fan of eyes.

Rosalie, on the other hand, was recommended by a call I put into a modeling agency. On a whim I called the biggest modeling agency in Chicago and the next day Rose showed up on my doorstep, pushing her way into my loft and practically tearing off her clothes on the way to pose herself.

I'd liked the looks of her for the sole reason that she obviously had self esteem issues. Rose was a contradiction in terms. She came off as being the most haughty and egotistical person, but I could see a little scared girl who'd been damaged when I looked in her eyes. She was hiding some secret from her past and she covered it up by focusing on her appearance and how people saw her on the outside.

If you can't fix what's on the inside, you could always fix what's on the outside. I think that's the mentality Rosalie took in life, whether knowingly or not.

That first session had been tempestuous at best. She'd demanded to be painted in one pose while I wanted another. She'd huffed her way through the whole thing, remarking how remarkably slow I seemed to be going. I reminded her that painting is not like photography. I couldn't just click the camera and have her image ready and waiting for me. It took time to develop.

Much like my relationship with Rosalie took to develop. Okay, not a relationship in that sense, but a relationship nonetheless. I learned how to handle her. When to encourage her and when to smartly take her down.

I think Rose thought of herself as my muse and as much as it pained me to admit, I probably wouldn't be featured in the Art Institute if it wasn't for her image. So I did the proverbial grin and bear it with her.

I put up with her replacing my Dunkin Donuts coffee in my machine with some eco grown fair trade dark roast that she said she was hooked on after being the spokesmodel for the brand. Like she really cared about if eight year old children in some third world country were paid pennies a week to pick coffee beans. Maybe that's how she slept at night.

I allowed her to fill my loft with some freaky floral candles that smelled like my mom's gardens at full bloom because she said she was in a better state of mind to model for me with them burning. Shit, I would have been in a better state of mind with stale pizza and old beer laying around, but noooooo not Rose. Fine. She could have her smelly candles.

The day she'd refused to take her pants off if I didn't replace my old Rolling Stones LPs with her mating whales CD I'd almost kicked her out. She was really fucking annoying sometimes.

But I didn't kick her out.

I smiled and nodded and agreed that "Ruby Tuesday" was in no way better than natural animal sounds. I think somewhere in the world I took five years of Keith Richards' life when I said that, something he didn't need considering he pretty much looked to be one foot in the grave most of the time anyway.

"Edddddddddd-ward!" Rosalie squealed.

She crossed her arms over her naked body and I swear for a moment her nipples were glaring at me, slightly lopsided. My dick laughed at her from its safe place within my pants.

"What, Rosalie? What now?" I snipped at her.

"Have you even done anything on that canvas? You've been staring at it for thirty minutes, jackass!" she huffed and tapped her perfectly pedicured toes.

I fought the urge to roll my eyes at her. Another typical Rosalie moment. Wondering why creativity wasn't coming as easily to me as being beautiful came to her. There really was no use explaining to her how being creative actually worked. I might as well be explaining the life support systems on the International Space Station, though fuck knows if I know how they actually work.

And to be perfectly honest, my whole creativity mojo was off balance lately. I would start something and it would be coming along nicely when WHAMO! Painter's block. Or whatever it was called. I'd freak my shit out and agonize over every stroke of the brush.

I had five unfinished paintings just freaking sitting there waiting for me to move past whatever was keeping me from finishing them and move on my way with them. Lord knows I could make a pretty penny if I ever did.

When I'd been contacted by the Art Institute's special collections curator for the feature in the museum my fame had skyrocketed in the local art scene and my paintings were suddenly selling at a much higher amount than they were before the exhibit. Not that I was complaining in the least. I didn't have to live that typical starving artist lifestyle so many of my art school buddies were proudly sporting.

Yeah because eating ramen noodles and begging for bakery leftovers at the end of the day made you more creative. Hell, I'm not begrudging them anything or looking down on them in any way, but being able to afford heat in the frigid Chicago winters and enjoying a nice juicy steak every now and them definitely had it's perks. A nice extra rare porterhouse at Ruth's Chris down on North Dearborn could get my mouth watering like nothing else. Fuck yes, I loved my meat bloody. I wanted it practically still mooing when it came out from the kitchen. I loved when a little drip of really red juice dripped out of my mouth. Best. Thing. Ever.

The one time I'd taken Rose there as a celebration for selling a painting at a particular high price she'd ordered a salad. A fucking salad. At Ruth's Chris. Practically sacrilege. You're at a fucking steakhouse, babe. Eat the damn meat. Prissy bitch. Whatever.

"So are we going to do anything or are you just going to stand there and stare at my cute, sexy little pussy?" she smirked.

Yes, right. That thing. The thing that Rose always made sure I saw whenever she got naked for me. The one thing I vowed never to ever go anywhere near. I'm pretty sure if my dick ever entered those gates of hell it would get bitten off by her vagina teeth. Vagina dentate was the Latin phrase for it. Sure they were a complete myth, but my dick's luck would be that she'd actually have them. The Dude shriveled back into my body at the thought of it. I know, buddy. I promise you'll never find out. Not on my life or yours, I thought.

That's right. I named my penis after The Big Lebowski. Seriously … what guy wouldn't?

I sighed and ran a hand through my long, shaggy hair.

Hmmmm, getting near chin length now.

This painting wasn't getting done today. Hell, it probably wasn't even going to get started today. So let's just cut our losses and take the rest of the day off. I haven't dropped by my exhibit in about a week or two.

"I'll take what's behind door number three, Alex," I said in a flat voice, turning to organize my paints.

"What?" she asked me.

I yet again fought the urge to roll my eyes before giving in knowing that she couldn't see me with my back to her. Ahhhhh, that felt nice.

"I'm going to go out for the day. I need to take a little break from painting for a few days. I'm sure you can find ways to entertain yourself," I answered flatly.

Rosalie huffed and started moving around behind me, and I could hear the distinctive sounds of pissed off model mode starting to set in. The heavy footsteps. The angry whimpers. And … and … wait for it …

"Really, Edward? Really? You're doing this to me now of all times?" she whined.

Yep, there we go. Right on time, Rosalie. You about let me down.

"Yes, Rose. You may not understand this, but sometimes artists go through periods of creative unrest. And it seems that I'm in one of those periods right now. So if you'd do me a favor and get on your merry little way, I have things I should do," I explained in a slow, calm voice fit for a small child who didn't have the mental comprehension to pick up on what I was saying.

I turned around and Rose was pulling her shirt over her head. She fluffed her hair and adjusted her boobs so they sat up in the low neckline. Probably looking to tease me into staring at her tits. I knew her ways. Whatever. Unfortunately for her, her ways didn't work.

"Fine, Mr. 'I need a creative break,'" Rosalie snapped out. "Give me a call when you're ready to look at perfection. And don't forget about that gallery opening in two weeks!"

"Rose, like I could forget about that. I swear Emmett calls me every five fucking hours to remind me of it."

Emmett was my cousin and my agent. Looking at the guy you'd never think he was so well versed in the art world given that he was built more like a football player than a knowledgeable art connoisseur. Looks were definitely deceiving though. Double majoring in art history and business during college, he was the smartest person I knew even if he played himself off as being some big lug. I don't think I'd be where I was if it wasn't for him in large part. He played just as big of a part in my newfound success as Rosalie's image did.

Much to my chagrin, he also had eyes for Rosalie. She of course paid no attention to him. She wanted whatever she couldn't have, and I was target numero uno. I'm pretty sure the only thing that would ever stop her from trying to get her hands on me would be a ring on my finger and even then I doubted it would make that much of a difference.

Rose may have not been the person outright in the world, but underneath her tough bitchy exterior, I ultimately knew there was really a good person. She annoyed the crap out of me on a routine and regular basis, and she also amazed me by pulling out these little things every now and then that would make me almost stop in my place and stare at her.

She was fiercely loyal and would definitely defend what she considered hers. She'd talked about wanting kids beyond just about anything in her life, but her current career as a model really wasn't conducive to raising children or being pregnant for that matter. She planned on banking enough money as she possibly could, get as famous as she could and then taking some time off to eventually have kids.

It was just a matter of finding a guy she always said. Of course, she also smiled a little wider and leaned over a little more, and I knew of course that she was insinuating that I would be the guy.

Um, no. My Tab A would never be inserted in her Slot B thank you very much.

I heard the door slam behind me and I sighed knowing Rosalie would probably whine like a young girl for the next two weeks after I finally called her to get her back in for more modeling. Then I'd sell another painting of her and she'd be all fine with me. I think in large part she got off on the idea that people where admiring her image all over in the art community. It made her secure and better about herself. Almost like she was worth looking at.

I slipped my old favorite suede coat on and threw on a ratty scarf around my neck. It may be a complete chick thing to say but I love scarves.

The midday Chicago streets were bustling with activity. Suits doing whatever suits do, probably making multi-million dollar business deals over boring things. Every day I woke up I thanked my lucky stars I didn't have to do that crap for a living. I could make my own hours and got to wear whatever the fuck I wanted. No uncomfortable ties for me. I swear those things were invented for the sole reason to choke guys at work.

I stopped by Garrett's Popcorn and got some of my favorite cheese popcorn, munching as I walked the streets. The cold wind cut right through me and signaled that this winter would be a frigid one. Definitely going to have to turn the heat up this winter. Luckily I could pay for my heat, unlike my one friend Derrick who had to wear gloves when he painted so his fingers didn't fall off from frostbite.

I threw the empty bag of popcorn away and licked my fingers clean. Mmmm, I loved that stuff.

There were a group of spirited children putting on some performance for change on the corner of Michigan Avenue and Washington so I stood and watched them for a bit, throwing some loose change I had in my pockets in a small bucket they'd placed out in front of where they were performing. I knew what it was like to be creative and I liked to encourage children to be creative as much as I could. And besides, they were pretty good at what they were doing. The one kid who couldn't have been more than five years old could keep a freaking beat on that damn bucket like nobody else.

The lions at the front steps welcomed me back to the building I probably could consider my second home. I spent more time there than was healthy in my childhood, my mother encouraging my creativity as much as she could.

First thing I did after I made my first big sale was pay off a credit card bill I'd been carrying for awhile. The second thing was to buy myself a two year membership to the Art Institute that I just kept renewing. I used it pretty often, coming and checking out the masterpieces that I longed to be apart of one day.

I think that's why I was beyond honored to be featured in the small local artist gallery in the back corner of the museum. I visited often enough, still blown away every time I saw my name on the wall. Well, my initials actually. I used only my initials as my professional name because as much as I liked the fame and money influx, I didn't like the spotlight. I preferred to remain in the shadows and enjoy my fame with quiet smirks.

The art is what should be focused on, not me. After all, that's what people where paying for. Not the fact that I did it. My name wasn't big enough for that yet. I hadn't reached the point where I could paint vomit on canvas and it would sell for fifty thousand. That's when you know you've become become bigger than your work when something like that happens. That's my opinion at least.

The older woman at the front desk smiled warmly at me when I showed her my member card.

"Good to see you back, Edward. It's been awhile, hasn't it?" Beatrice said.

I chuckled and patted her hand, "Yes, it has, Bea."

Her bifocals slipped down her nose and she pushed them back up, hiding her smile with the back of her hand. Beatrice had one of her teeth missing on the upper left side and she didn't like people to see it.

"Here to check on your exhibit again?" she asked.

I leaned towards her, exuding some of my Cullen family charm in the process. My father always said it was what made us good with the ladies. I said it helped me get my way on more than one occasion.

"Of course I am. Have to make sure nobody's touching my fine paintings, don't I?" I remarked, my voice somewhat lowering in the process.

I practically heard the older woman swallow and her eyes seemed to glaze over a bit.

Leaning back with a slight smirk, I patted her hand once more and walked into the museum.

Normally I would spend time looking at my favorite paintings and sculptures (a medium I was particularly fascinated with as I could do nothing within it myself), but this time I took the path I'd taken a few times before and went right up to my little slice of the world.

Old Jerry, the guard assigned to this part of the museum, was on duty again standing outside my gallery and I clapped him on the back when I came up behind him.

"Oh geeze, Edward! Don't do that to an old man! You're going to give me a heart attack one of these days doing that," he huffed and had his hand over his chest.

I laughed a little at him and crossed my arms over my chest.

"So how's things lately around here?" I asked, nodding my head towards my gallery.

"Ah, going well so far today. Nothing to report. There's one woman who's been in there for awhile now. Made herself pretty comfortable on that couch," he chuckled and his the wrinkles around his eyes pulled together in a sign of his age.

I peered in through the glass doors and sure enough there sitting on the couch in the center of the gallery with her back to me was a woman who seemed to be paying close scrutiny to my paintings.

She had long brown hair and I could see glints of gold weaving through it from reflecting off the gallery lights overhead. There didn't seem to be anything else that was particularly spectacular about her from the back honestly though.

I glanced around the rest of the gallery and saw that all of my paintings were still in their places I'd instructed they be hung.

"How long she been in there, Jerry?" I turned back to the old guard.

"About an hour now," he answered and scratched his cheek.

I took one glance back at the woman and she was still intently gazing at my works.

Well, no use disturbing her then. I could plainly see from here that nothing was amiss in the gallery.

I clapped the guard on the back again as I headed back out towards the front of the museum.

"Take care, Jerry. I'll be back sometime soon probably. Having some problems doing my next one," I remarked.

He wheezed a bit as he coughed and I pounded his back a little.

"Gotta stop that smoking, man. Gonna kill you one of these days," I said.

"Yeah well. No use stopping now. Something's gonna kill me," he wheezed back.

I chuckled and stepped away.

"See you around, Jerry," I said chuckling, a slight smile on my lips. More likely than not, Old Jerry is going to outlast us all.

"You too, Edward. You too," he called after me softly.

The cars were speeding by on Michigan Avenue as I exited the building, that same cold fall air blowing up around me.

Winter's going to be cold this year, I thought and headed back towards my loft.

If I could just work through whatever block I have on painting though, my winter would be a lot easier.

My cellphone vibrated in my pocket and I pulled it out, flipping it open and putting it to my ear in one swift motion as the sea of suited bodies converged around me. The work day was starting to wind down and the inevitable throng of professionals were descending on public transportation to get back to their comfortable, boring houses in the suburbs.

"Emmett, I know. Gallery opening. Thanks," I quipped into the phone, knowing full well who called me this many times a day.

I snapped the phone shut again before he had a chance to get his words out and let myself get lost in the sea of black and grey.

Maybe if I lost myself just for a little bit, I would find what I needed.

These paintings weren't going to paint themselves after all.