A/N: Sorry if there are typos in this. It's mega late and I'm posting this with little more than a brief read through. I'll reread in the morning and fix any errors I find.
The Inspiration
Chapter 4: Hangover Hell
Edward
As I woke up, my head felt like there was a convoy of eighteen wheeler semi trucks rolling through with their horns blaring full blast. What the hell did I do last night?
Oh yeah.
I cracked my eyes open and came face to face with the empty bottle of Jack on the coffee table in front of the couch I was laying on. The couch that was too damn short for my long ass legs and I probably was going to be a massive crunch of stiff joints the minute I attempted any type of movement.
My cell phone started shrieking somewhere in the massive pile of crap on the table and holy shit if it wasn't the most annoyingly loud and shrill noise ever. I knew there was absolutely no way I was going to find it in time to pick it up and there sure as hell was no way I was going to be in any shape to answer a phone call anytime soon either thanks to the regiment of army soldiers marching through my fucking head.
Remind me not to crack a new bottle and finish it in one night again, brainiac. Who's the dumbshit who thought it would be a great idea to get shit-faced last night?
Shut up, idiot. There was that one time I was trashed and painted like some idiot savant.
Only problem was that last night I'd just gotten trashed and been an idiot, not the idiot savant I was looking to be.
Well, so much for that plan.
Color me moronic apparently.
I covered my throbbing ears with an expertly matched throw pillow from the couch and waited until the stupid ringing of my phone finally shut off.
Super. I can go back to sleep and forget all about this massive hangover from hell. No need to attempt work today considering there was probably no way I'd get anything accomplished. I made a feeble attempt at scanning my hungover mind for any appointments I had today and finding none that I could think of, relaxed into the couch.
I was out in no time.
I was having this freaking fantastic dream. There was this girl with sultry brown hair and deep brown eyes flashing in and out of my field of vision. Her smile was sweet and innocent, but I caught a look in her eyes that said more than any amount of words ever could.
Her breath on my neck. Her hands on my back. Random glimpses of creamy pale skin.
Fuck, it was so hot and she wasn't even naked.
"Eddie! I know you're in there! Get you're ass to the door, dipshit!" the brunette said, sounding surprisingly like …
"WAKE UP!"
Emmett.
Fucking Christ.
I groaned and opened up my eyes. I looked down and willed the morning wood to go away before I had to face the lumbering ox at the door.
Emmett's huge fist pounding on the door though was not making my still present headache any better.
I groaned as I threw myself off the couch, swaying a little on my feet and reminding myself again that Jack Daniels and a pizza, though tasty, did not make a dinner. The empty pizza box was still next to the couch and I stepped over it on my way to the door.
"This better be good," I grumbled and rubbed my probably red eyes.
I unlatched the chain on my big front door to my loft apartment and Emmett stood there looking like his usual million dollars in a suit he probably bought with commission from my last sale.
"About damn time, Eddie," he grinned at me, his dimples flashing.
"What do you want? And don't call me Eddie," I grumbled and scratched my abs right above my pants. Thankfully my erection had toned down thanks to my complete annoyance with being woken up from what was developing into a nice sex dream.
"Here to see how you're doing," Emmett said and pushed past me into my apartment.
I groaned again and shut the door behind him. No use trying to argue with him at this point. Might as well humor him and then kick his ass out so I can go back to doing whatever I should be doing but what in actuality I'm not doing.
Emmett flopped down on the couch I'd just vacated and glared at the empty liquor bottle on the table.
"Have a party last night?" he asked, looking around at the mess.
I headed towards the open kitchen to find myself some water and two very large, very strong painkillers. Maybe I could talk Emmett into some greasy diner food to tame the hangover. That always helped in college and I knew Emmett would never turn down a big stack of pancakes or French toast.
Grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge and finding two pills, I walked over to where Emmett was sitting, swallowed the pills and downed the entire bottle of water before easing myself into the large armchair next to the couch. Some Swedish brand that was stylish. The gay guy at the furniture store said it was hot or something so I threw a wad of cash at him and it was delivered the next day. I think I made his day.
"So I'll ask again, you have a party last night and not invite me?" Emmett said, sniffing the air.
"If by party you mean me, a bottle of Jack, a pizza, my hand and Big Boobs Fourteen than yes, I had a party," I replied.
"Twelve was much better than fourteen. There was that one chick in fourteen that did that …" he started.
"That weird thing with her tongue while she was sucking the one dude. Yeah, it freaked me out too," I finished and cringed remembering the scene.
Emmett roared with laughter and threw his arm over the back of the couch.
"Dude, we gotta get you painting again. This whole creative block is not helping your dick. I'm pretty sure you're gonna rub it raw instead of actually getting some proper ass," he chuckled.
Emmett was fully aware of my tendency to sleep with my models, given that he constantly had eyes for Rosalie. Of course he also knew how much I didn't want to sleep with that one particular model. He couldn't believe that I was passing up the opportunity to sleep with "such a goddess." His words, not mine.
I shrugged and kicked at the pizza box with my foot.
"Yeah, I know. It just seems like nothing I do is working. I just stare at the fucking canvas, agonizing over every fucking stroke," I grimaced. Emmett snickered at my use of the word 'stroke.' "Oh grow up, dingleberry."
"What? I can't help it if I'm constantly in search of my next big one. I'm a guy in a big city full of hot ladies. And one particular hot lady who always seems to be trying to ride your junk, dude," he laughed.
"I still don't know how you can be interested in her, Emmett. She's a shrill harpy with lopsided boobs and an ego the size of a small third world country."
Emmett's smile only widened.
"They might be lopsided, but they're still damn nice. I wouldn't mind sucking on this nipples until she …" he started but stopped when I held up my hand.
"Emmett, I'm already hungover. Do you seriously want me to puke on your suit?"
His smile vanished and was replaced with a look of horror.
"Low blow, dude. Low blow. I paid more for this suit than most people spend on groceries in a month."
I chuckled at him. Always thinking about food.
"So why did you drop by unannounced this morning? I was perfectly content to wake up and bust a nut in the shower before you started banging on my door waking me up from a perfectly fine sex dream," I asked while massaging my temple.
They weren't exactly my morning plans, but they were close enough to what I probably would do.
Emmett shrugged, saying, "Seriously, Eds. Just wanted to see how my favorite artist is doing on this brisk fall day."
My eyes narrowed on him.
"Sure. You just wanted to see how my next painting's coming along, didn't you? Did Rosalie call you and squeal how I gave her a few days off?" I asked pointedly.
His eyes darted around the room before he grinned a little one sided grin.
"Maybe, but that's any good agent's responsibility. I mean how am I supposed to feed my children if you aren't selling stuff?" he responded.
"You don't have kids, Emmett."
"Yeah but I do have a premium YouPorn subscription I have to pay for somehow not to mention a quickly drying up collection of fine French Cognacs that needs restocking," he said looking very serious.
"Whatever, jerk. I'm sure you'll find a way to feed that nasty habit of yours. There's plenty of free porn on the internet if all else fails," I responded, running my hand through my hair.
"Bite your tongue, Edward Cullen!" Emmett said and mocked wagging his finger at me. "Emmett McCarty does not lower himself to free porn! How dare you speak such blasphemy!"
I laughed, my head reminding me exactly what I'd been doing the night before. "Ugghhh, fucking headache."
"Greasy diner food?" Emmett asked.
"Greasy diner food," I groaned.
"Best idea I've had in awhile. Just do me one favor, Edward?" he said, leaning forward on his elbows.
"What's that?" I asked.
"Take a shower, dude. You smell like ass and old pizza. You're stinking up my suit," Emmett laughed.
Thirty minutes, a shower and a short walk later, we were ordering from our favorite neighborhood diner, coincidentally named The Greasy Spoon. My pick was the peach crepes while Emmett went all out ordering most of the right side of the menu and probably driving his cholesterol through the roof in the process.
"Really though, Edward. Serious business talk time now. I'm gonna need you to at least put out some new pieces soon. There's been quiet whispers getting back to me that people are saying you're just some flash in the pan artist not worthy of that Institute gallery," Emmett said between shoveling forkfuls of French toast into his mouth.
I groaned and pushed a peach around on my plate.
"It's not that easy, Emmett. Do I wish I could just sit down and paint whatever crap I felt like, selling it for thousands? Sure. But would I feel comfortable with that? Hell no. I'm not the kind of artist that splashes some paint on the canvas and calls it art. I actually think about it and try to convey something," I said.
Emmett shrugged with a mouthful of eggs.
"Whatever, dude. But you gotta do something. And then there's that gallery opening coming up too. We have plenty of old stuff to fill the walls for that one, but it's gotta happen soon, buddy," he finally said.
"I know," I sighed. "I just feel … uninspired lately. I wake up, Rosalie comes over and strips off her clothes, and I just stare for thirty before giving up."
"And this is supposed to make me feel better for you? Dude, you have a hot naked chick sitting right in front of you and you're complaining about being uninspired? I could paint the fucking Sistine Chapel if I had her hot body in front of me," he laughed and shoveled more pancakes.
I glared at him and popped the last peach into my mouth. "Obviously you aren't an artist, Emmett, otherwise you'd understand what I'm going through here."
He laughed at me. "Of course I'm not an artist. Somebody has to find a way to sell those paintings. You're not exactly the best marketer of your talents so that leaves the task to your ever talented cousin."
"Eh, fair enough. You're pretty good at selling my stuff," I conceded.
"Damn straight. Your stinky ass would still be sitting back in art school if it weren't for my brilliant selling and marketing skills," Emmett said with a very serious face, his fork hovering in mid air.
"Shit, you act like I'm completely incompetent and unable to wipe my damn ass by myself without you," I growled at him.
Emmett was really starting to get under my skin today. Maybe it was the still lingering hangover and my already short fuse. Maybe it was I was frustrated with not being able to paint worth a shit. And maybe it was a combination of all of the above.
He put his fork down and rubbed the back of his neck with his hand.
"Sorry, Edward. Didn't mean to piss you off. You really are talented, man. I wouldn't be anywhere if you weren't so talented. I mean, I'm great and all, but having actual good artwork to pitch is a lot easier than selling crap. I wouldn't be sitting here in a $2000 suit if it weren't for you, man," Emmett said glumly.
Awww shit. If Emmett had a college degree in business, he had a Ph.D. in groveling. I'd seen it all my life when he'd break something at home and somehow find his way out of being grounded for a year. Like the time he backed his dad's brand new Audi into a brick mailbox. Uncle Bill turned five shades of purple and I swore he was going to rip Emmett's head off, but somehow he scraped by with a weeks worth of grounding and having to pay for some of the repair costs.
And hell if I was going to be able to resist Emmett when he pulled out his best grovel. No way, no how. It wasn't even worth a fight.
I waved him off with a flick of my wrist and Emmett's sullen expression turned into a wide grin.
"Thanks, man. I knew you'd chill out," he laughed.
"Make it up to me by picking up the tab. After all, you make your money off of me anyways," I chuckled.
After Emmett indeed paid the bill and I sucked down the last of my blood orange juice (a Greasy Spoon speciality), we left and walked around a bit in the busy midday streets.
"So what have you been doing these past few days with your freedom from the Blonde Hurricane?" Emmett asked with his hands in his pockets.
"Eh, this and that. Went down to the exhibit the first day. Wanted to see if everything was okay, which of course it was. There was some girl parked there on the couch just staring. Guard said she'd been there all day. I almost wanted to ask her why the heck she'd be just sitting there all day staring, but I thought better of it," I shrugged.
"So why didn't you?" he asked.
"Why didn't I what?"
"Ask her why she was in there so long?"
I stopped and looked at Emmett. His question was actually one that had kind of been plaguing me the past few days. Sure, my paintings were nice to look at and decorative and all that. But to sit and stare at them for hours? Why would anybody wand to do that?
I'd been told once that I had a talent for capturing a moment in a person's psyche with a paintbrush. A window into the soul almost.
Could that woman actually agree with that statement?
A part of me wanted to know.
Painting had always been for me a way to express myself. I'd always seen the world as a collection of colors, shades and shapes. Compositions. But I'd also seen it as something to be interpreted. Something to be captured for posterity.
"Earth to Eddie! Earth to Eddie!" Emmett said, waiving his hand in front of my face and bringing me out of my hazy thoughts.
My eyes narrowed on him and I growled, "Don't call me Eddie!"
"Oh psssshaw. You're too damn sensitive about little shit like that. Take a chill pill man and relax. Go get laid. Bust a nut. Go to your precious exhibit if that helps you relax. You're too wound up to get work done. Maybe that's your problem, man. Maybe you need a massage or something. I know this great place down on State that does great massages with this oil shit. My girl's name is Sheryl. You want me to call her and make you an appointment?" Emmett rambled.
But I wasn't paying any attention to him any more.
Mostly because I agreed.
I really needed to relax and take a load off. I'd been putting too much pressure on myself to find a way through this … whatever it was that was bothering me. And by doing so I'd only succeeded in shutting my talent off even more. Fuck, I couldn't even do a stick figure yesterday when I'd tried.
"Hey, Emmett man?" I said suddenly.
He was still rambling and stopped mid sentence.
"Yeah?" he asked.
"I think I'm taking off. You're right about that whole relaxing thing. And I think I have to figure out something in my head. You cool for the rest of the day?" I asked him.
"Sure, man. Take care of yourself and get some paint on those pretty little canvases of yours. Papa needs his porno," Emmett laughed and clapped me on the shoulder with his gigantic hand.
"Thanks, Emmett. Gotta run. Things to do!" I said quickly and started down the street towards my destination.
"No problemo, dude. Just don't forget the gallery opening!" Emmett called out from behind me.
I waved my hand over my back at him to acknowledge I'd heard and headed off towards the lake.
The granite steps and lions I nicknamed Stu and Leonard when I was eight loomed up quicker than I realized. The line was minimal today and Old Beatrice was at her usual post selling tickets.
"Hey, Bea. How's my pretty lady doing today?" I said passing by her.
"Good, Edward. Yourself?" she asked and I saw the faint blush pass across her cheeks.
"Doing better now. Working through something," I grinned at her.
She smiled that half smile of hers as I waked away towards my gallery.
The comforting quiet of the museum quickly enveloped me back into its loving embrace and I instantly began to feel more relaxed. There was just something about this place that did it to me. I felt so at home here more so than probably anywhere else on the planet, even my parent's house.
In this place with its white walls and hardwood floors, I was at home. I was at peace.
My breathing evened out and my heart rate dropped as this new calm settled over me. There really was something to all that hullabaloo Emmett was rattling off before. Well, not the busting a nut bit even though my balls were aching for a good workout.
Soon enough, buddy. We'll just relax a bit and then go home and rub one out to that one video I'd bookmarked on my computer last night.
Jerry was standing in his normal spot and did the characteristic man nod to me as I breezed past, this time quietly pushing the glass doors open and taking a good look around in my gallery.
All the pictures were in the same place. The lights aimed properly. There was simply nothing out of the ordinary.
Except there was.
Sitting on that same couch in that same position was that same girl.
Mahogany hair with soft waves and glints of copper from the overhead lights. She was bent over something in her lap and I couldn't see her face.
All the questions I had earlier came roaring back into my thoughts. Why would someone just sit here? What could be so damn interesting about my paintings that it would make someone stop what they were doing and take so much time out of their day?
And what the hell was she doing anyways just sitting here?
But then another thought struck me. One so plainly obvious I almost chuckled at it.
Why did she come back here of all places?
There were so many other more famous and great paintings in this place. I was hardly worthy to hang on the walls as Monet and the others, though somehow the museum had thought so.
So why here? Why me? Why my paintings above all else?
The woman faintly turned her head in my direction and I caught a glimpse of her mouth. She was biting her lip while doing whatever she was doing and I saw a slight peek at her pink tongue between her lips as she chewed on her lips.
And for some strange odd reason, my aching dick was suddenly hard. I mean, I'd always somewhat had an oral fixation on women's mouths as pretty much any sane guy would, but why … now?
She turned again towards me and her dark eyelashes fanned out on her creamy pale cheeks.
Oh fuck me slowly.
I was definitely going to be needing to rub it out later because she was … simply beautiful. Sexy and mysterious. Innocent and wholesome. Simple and yet complex at the same time. Her face was slightly oval shape and her nose was perfectly sloping. She had that cleft in her upper lip that I loved on women, and especially loved dipping my tongue into when I kissed them.
A lock of her hair fell out from behind her ear and I watched as she gently pushed it back into place. Even her graceful fingers I found sexy.
She exuded this quiet sensuality I loved in women. Not the cocky ego Rosalie had, but more a sedate confidence that showed through with her body movements.
She licked her lips and I swear to god I almost blew my load in my pants right there.
Down boy, seriously Dude. Down! Just give me a few minutes and I'll take care of you.
And the funniest thing was that everything about her called to me. Lured me in. Made me want to take her. To possess her. To have her and never let her go. But also protect her. I sensed this naivety about the world from just looking at her.
Talk to her, you idiot! Put the staff at half mast and go fucking talk to her!
I willed away my hard on as best I could, swallowing and finding my throat dry as a bone.
Geeze, was I nervous?
I never got nervous. I was Edward fucking Cullen, claimer of panties, seducer of women, famous artist and dead fucking sexy if I must say so myself.
And I was fucking nervous to go over and talk to a woman in my gallery holding my artwork.
This little tiny voice in the back of my head sprang up where it had never been before, telling me to be careful about this. Take my time. Play it differently. Don't put on the usual song and dance to get her clothes off and get her on her back.
So what was my plan?
Fuck if I know.
Well, I could do one thing. Probably not exactly the smartest thing, but it was certainly something.
My usual show was to walk right up to a hot chick and say something about how I was a famous painter and asking her if she'd ever been painted. My success rate was actually rather good with that line even though you'd think I'd get more slaps and denials than kisses and acceptances. The good looks probably helped a bit.
So I mean, I guess I could not do that.
Couldn't I?
Sure, dude. Do whatever you want, but do something. You have a hot chick in your gallery who just happens to be here when you are and you're standing here looking like a complete moron.
Fair enough.
Sounds like a decent plan to me.
I gulped the lump that had formed in my throat and quietly made my way over to the girl on the couch.
Why did I feel like I was walking towards destiny?