All characterizations, plot lines, backgrounds and details belong to the author. Plagiarism is theft. No copying or reproduction of this work in any language is permitted without the express written authorization of the author. Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. Thank you. May 2010.

Thanks as ever to my amazing beta, xrxdanixrx, who's also provided awesome banner on Twilighted! She's incredible as are her stories, Hate Me, Don't Try To Save Me, Here We Go Again and At Your Own Risk!

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Let's see what Edward has been up to today. Come, join me…

EPOV

Chapter 18

I try to keep my emotions under control while Bella disappears down the street in her Jeep. She said she isn't even sure the guy's name was James, but I'm fairly certain I recognized his voice last night. She also looked really scared when I found her, and James can be a little intense, to say the least.

James has a reputation in the art world of being an all around asshole, and a little unpredictable. There have been stories about him loosing his temper, and while I know talk is cheap, I'd rather not take a chance where Bella is concerned. He's always also been way too interested in my work. When my last collection was shown at the gallery, he spent more time there viewing it than I did.

Whoa, hang on. James can be intense and has a reputation? What about me? I just about launched myself at some poor guy who was just talking to Bella. Ok, so it looked like it was a bit more than talking, if I'm being honest. He looked like he wanted to…fuck, let's not even go there. The mere fucking thought of someone touching Bella other than me is maddening. My fingers complain slightly due to the fact that I'm gripping the steering wheel so tight, I could probably rip it off. I need to calm the fuck down.

I realize eight-thirty in the Goddamn morning is too early for his store to be open, and it's probably a good idea for me to give myself time to calm down before I go barreling in with guns blazing, so I stop at the Loblaw's grocery store to pick up some stuff for dinner tonight. Yeah, I'm actually pretty good in the kitchen. It's a talent that most women seem to enjoy. The kitchen…Bella in my kitchen…the fucking possibilities are endless there, and my dick couldn't agree more.

I push the cart aimlessly through the aisles, wondering what to cook for her. From everything she said the last time I asked her to dinner, she eats practically nothing, although that could have just been all part of her act to keep me from getting too close.

I decide to pick up ingredients for my famous vegetarian fettuccine primavera, along with some salad and fresh bread, which I'll turn into Brushcetta later on today. I pick up some pastries and chocolate from the bakery because I intend on engaging in a little wine tasting tonight…not to the point where she was last night, but being uninhibited is not a bad thing, especially when I show her what I've done. I know it's more than a little overwhelming, actually bordering on obsessive, and I'm not sure how she's going to react.

Once I've got the groceries, I drive to James' store and am immediately disappointed when some young punk kid with nose and lip piercings is leaning on the counter, looking bored out of his mind behind the register "James not working this morning?" I ask.

The kid shrugs his shoulders. "This afternoon," is the only response I get. Karma indeed. This conversation with James is just going to have to wait. I buy a few more tubes of paint and launch back to the car, the need to get back to the studio now overpowering everything else.

Twenty minutes later, I'm standing in front of the canvas that I've brushed with midnight blue; emotion burning, fuelling me. It's almost unconscious now, like I am painting from a different place. One where I can be open and free, where there is hope and promise, acceptance and understanding. While I can't even begin to fathom the physical and emotional turmoil Bella has gone through since the accident, I paint what I think it must feel like, the glimpse of reality she showed me last night.

While Schubert blasts out from my iPod, filling my otherwise silent studio, I layer yellow hints of hope against the dark background. The shade of burgundy her skin turns when it blushes bleeds through the canvas. The strokes are careful and methodical, and while no one will understand the meaning behind them, I paint for her and for me. For what I hope we can find together. I paint for every person who has ever made her feel like she was different, constantly judging, assuming, and missing the chance to know who she really is.

My work has been called modern abstract by most reviewers, which is simply a nice way of them saying they have no fucking idea what my paintings are about. Actually, it kind of intrigues me to see what people think my work means. The way I paint is open to the viewer's interpretation. I like letting them form their own opinion on what it's about. I enjoy seeing what kind of emotion it induces and I usually find it amusing when they explain to me why I place the colours the way I do on the canvas.

Everyone views my work differently, which I suppose is part of its appeal. I'm often floored with what people come up with. I've heard it all, a wide range of theories, everything from erotic fantasies, to political statements. I'm just happy that it evokes feeling, a reaction of some kind. My world has been void of feeling for so long, that it's cathartic when it pours out me, like it does today and every day, since I met Bella.

Two hours later, I'm emotionally exhausted. I stand back and study the canvas. I can't remember when I've thrown myself into my work like this. Each painting in the collection is becoming increasingly expressive while I feel my connection with Bella changing and growing.

While I stand here, I realize I've had nothing to eat since dinner last night with Carlisle, and I'm starving. I switch off the iPod and make my way down to the kitchen.

I scarf down a bagel and watch the rain fall in sheets against the windows. I don't even know when it started raining. I've got no idea what time it even is. I've managed to loose myself again in the essence that is Bella. Last night, her letting me in the way she did, was monumental. At least, that's how I'm treating it. I'm done taking things for granted and I've wasted so much time, but that, hopefully, ends tonight.

As I stare out the window, guzzling back a bottle of water, a persistent knocking invades my otherwise quiet contemplation of my work. I whip the door open to Jane, who looks more pissed off than normal, if that's possible. "We need to talk," she practically growls, pushing her way past me and dropping her soaked umbrella on the floor.

"Jane. I wish I could say it is a pleasure to see you, but I'm busy, and if I remember correctly, I told you I'd call you when I was ready."

"Do you think this is a fucking game, Edward?" Oh fuck. Jane pissed off...not something I really feel like dealing with right now, or ever.

"What are you talking about?"

"Do you think you can just go off and do whatever the fuck you want without at least talking to me about it?" she asks, glaring at me with the death stare.

"Slow down, Jane. What's going on?"

"When were you going to tell me about this little charity project of yours?" she asks. Her jaw sets and she narrows her eyes at me.

Oh shit. She knows about the auction. "How did you find out about that?"

"I found out this morning from a table of random women in the coffee shop." She glowers at me. "Oh, wait a minute. This is about your latest conquest fuck isn't it? Which one is she? It's the blonde, right?" she asks, cocking her head to the side in disapproval.

"Jane…"

"Can you not control your dick, Edward?" she asks, her voice elevated and harsh.

"First of all, you need to calm the fuck down! And you don't own me. Yes, you promote my work, but this auction doesn't have anything to do with my collection," I argue. Fuck ,she drives me insane. I'll be glad when I can move to another dealer after this collection is finished.

She grits her teeth and then unleashes her rage on me. "The fuck it doesn't! People have been waiting for fucking months for you to produce something, Edward! And now, I find out from a table of strangers that you're donating something to this lame auction."

"It's for a good cause," I say calmly, which only serves to fuel her wrath.

"A good cause that you'd like to fuck?" she asks, raising a pissed off eyebrow to me.

"I'm donating to the auction. End of story. You have no say in what I do." Oh, this is going to turn ugly pretty fucking fast.

"Are you telling me that you're ok with one of your paintings going up for auction along with dinner reservations and gift cards? Forgive me if I find that extremely hard to believe," she says, crossing her arms in front of her.

"Not everything in the world is about money or about you, Jane. Are you pissed off because I did this, or because you won't get any recognition for it?"

"Fuck you, Edward. I made you who you are and you fucking know it. The least you could have done was told me about this," she snarls.

"I don't owe you an explanation, Jane. The last time I checked, you were doing very well on the basis of the last collection I painted. You never have to work again if you don't' want to, so back the fuck off." I feel my blood start to boil again. She's crossing the fucking line right now.

"I want to see it," she demands.

"See what?"

"I want to see what you're painting for this auction."

"I haven't started it yet. I'm working on the collection right now," I say, hoping that will appease her.

"And how is that coming along?" she asks, inching closer to me.

"It's coming."

She tilts her head to the side. "You know, James is now involved in this auction? He's donating a piece, too," she says, smirking up at me, like this is a challenge or something for her.

"What? How?" Fucking hell.

"This morning, the table of charity babes convinced him. Apparently, they hold some sort of power over the pair of you that I don't understand. They must be pretty fucking amazing in bed," she scoffs.

"Jane…"

"Edward, if you do this, you risk the chance of your collection not being as successful as it could be. Everyone will see what you've done, and the value of what you're still working on could suffer," she says seriously. In a way, Jane is right, but honestly, I don't care about the money.

"I don't care, Jane. The money doesn't matter to me. I have more than I'm ever going to need already."

"Are you listening to yourself? Since when does money not matter to you?"

"Since now. Since always." Actually, that's not true. There was a time when that's all that mattered to me.

"That's not the tune you were singing two years ago when you were broke and begging for me to represent you. How soon we forget, Edward," she sneers.

"Jane, listen. I know you helped me. I'm not denying that, and I'm grateful for the help you gave me. You promoted my work when no one else would. But, it's different now. I'm different, and the fact of the matter is, you don't own me or my work. I do. And what I choose to do with pieces that have nothing to do with my original collections is none of your business. Yeah, I probably should have told you, but I didn't, and I'm not backing out of a commitment I made, so you're just going to have to learn to live with it."

"Learn to live with it? You're fucking unbelievable. You are the most arrogant self-centered asshole I've ever met! Whether you like it or not, Edward, what you do affects people other than you. It affects my business and the gallery, it affects the value of the pieces you have already done, and the ones you're working on. I'm just trying to protect you. That's my job. To make sure your work gets the credit it deserves, and that credit is diminished if it's put up for auction at some lame charity event," she explains.

"It's not open for negotiation, Jane. I'm donating something. Period."

"Don't come crying to me when this backfires in your face, Edward. Just ask yourself, is she really worth it? Whoever you're fucking or want to fuck at this charity group. Is she worth loosing what you've worked so hard for?" she asks ominously.

"You're overreacting as usual. This doesn't have anything to do with me fucking someone."

"Really? Are you saying you're not fucking anyone right now?" she asks, running her hand down my arm. A wave of nausea rips through me.

"Jane, enough," I say with warning. I take a step back from her.

"Would you like to fuck me, Edward?" Christ I'm an idiot. Why did I ever get involved with Jane?

"No. I wouldn't."

"Really? Because it seems to me that maybe you're unsatisfied in that department these days. You still seem so tense, Edward. I think she keeps holding out on you, and I know you. You need release. You crave it," she purrs, closing the distance between us.

"You don't know anything."

"I know you, Edward. You can stand here and pretend that you've changed, but this is me you're talking to. I know what drives you, and it's the adrenaline you get when you paint, the anticipation of the first time someone decides to buy your work. I was there when you sold your first painting. Do you remember that?" she asks, looking up at me with lust-filled eyes.

"Yes, of course I do."

"Remember what we did after that? You crave that, too. Maybe even more than anything else," she says, flattening her hand down my chest.

"Jane, it's not happening. I'm not interested. That part of our relationship is over. It's been over for a long time." I grab her hand and push it away from me.

"It doesn't have to be, Edward," she protests.

"Yes, actually it does." I walk to the door and open it, the rain pouring down hard while she stands glaring at me. "I have painting to do, Jane; painting that you are interrupting. You know, I'm sure if you're not interested in representing me anymore, I can find someone else who is," I say flatly.

Her eyes widen and she crosses the room, a new look of determination on her face. "Do not threaten me, Edward. I don't think I need to remind you that we have a contract, and it would make things extremely uncomfortable should I have to call in my lawyer," she warns. Her face softens slightly. "We used to be so good together. Why are you being so difficult?"

I let out a sigh. "I'm not trying to be difficult, Jane. I'm just not interested in having the kind of relationship you seem to want to have."

She nods her head and brushes past me and out the door, pushing her umbrella up. "Let me know when the collection is ready, Edward. You know, interest in James' work is growing, and at the rate you going, his may be ready before yours is," she says. Fuck, she's a bitch.

"Inspirational as always, Jane." She smiles, knowing she's hit a nerve…well, several actually, and then she makes her way to her car.

I slam the door shut, feeling depleted and anything but inspired. But there it is…Jane is right. That is who I was. I wanted the money, the women, even her at one point, and now, none of that means anything. Bella is all that matters, and I'm painfully aware that she may want nothing to do with me when she finds out how fucked up I really am. I can only hope that she feels something, anything remotely in the vicinity of what I feel for her.

I climb the stairs back to the studio and stare blankly at the half finished piece, trying to forget the person who I used to be. Jane's visit has changed my whole demeanor and the way I want to paint. I cover the piece I was working on and start a new one. Darker, foreboding, layers of grey, black, and scarlet; the brush strokes deep and thick, frantically alternating colour while the anger courses through my veins as I try to exercise my demons from me. I have given myself over to feeling. I want so badly to rid myself of who I used to be.

Time passes and I can't stop, each stroke feels both tortured and cathartic. The paint literally hurls from my brush onto the canvas. With the adrenaline pumping, I reach for one of my painting knives and cut a series of frenzied strips through the canvas. I sink to floor and hold my knees into my chest.

I don't know how long I sit and stare at the painting, waiting for the fire raging inside of me to die out. Normally, once a piece is done, I feel the release, but that's not happening right now. Instead, the fire burns harder, faster, it feels like its engulfing me, and I'm suffocating, desperate to grasp on to something, anything that will save me from myself.

Over the blaring of the iPod, I hear another interruption at the door, and with my heart slamming in my chest, I launch myself down the stairs. It's probably Jane, back to fucking dig the knife a little deeper. I don't know how the fuck she expects me to get anything done if she's constantly fucking interrupting me. I know I'm on my last nerve, the painting clearly not enough to tame my anger. I whip the door open, ready to unleash on Jane, and take an audible gasp in. She's standing there, ethereal beauty, my salvation, waiting for me while the rain pours down. "Bella," I breathe.

"I'm sorry. It looks like you were working," she says softly, taking in my frazzled appearance.

"Fuck, is it time already?"

She cocks her head to the side, a playful smile on her face. "Seems you had more interesting things to do today than think about our dinner," she says, lifting her eyebrows to me.

"No, of course not. I was just painting and time kind of got away from me. Come on in," I say, holding the door open wider. She shyly steps in and looks up at me. My dick immediately aches for release.

"I brought these for you." She bites her lip and holds out a large bouquet of purple hyacinths. "I believe you told me that they mean, I'm sorry," she says sarcastically. I shake my head at her and how absolutely disarming she is. "These are supposed to mean hope." She pulls out two blue irises from behind her back.

I'm floored. Hope? "What are you hoping for?"

"You," she says quietly. The air sparks between us, while I take in her words and stare down at her. She's got a grey sweater on that's clinging to every curve on her perfect body and a pair of black jeans that hang off her hips. My dick is on full alert, practically throbbing.

"They're beautiful. So are you." My voice comes out as a whisper. She blushes and casts her eyes to the floor. Fuck me. I'm in so much trouble. There is no way I'm going to be able to resist her when she's like this, but I have to try. We need to talk before this goes any further. I don't just want this to be some random fling. I know what I'm feeling goes way beyond where it should at this point, and that it's quite possible she's never going to let me in.

"You should put them in water," she suggests while I continue to stare at her.

'Right." I reach to take them from her, my fingers grazing hers, and I feel it. The warmth radiating from her, wrapping me, comforting me, electrifying every dead cell in my body. I hear her take a sharp breath in and she looks back up at me.

"Fuck it," I grumble, unable to contain the fire, it spills out of me. I wrap my free hand around her waist and bring her flush against my chest, my mouth crashing to hers, my tongue begging for entrance urgently against her lips. She consumes me, answering the kiss, lacing her fingers through my hair and pulling me closer. I drop the flowers and bring my other hand up to her hair, holding her to me, never wanting to let her go while she moans into my mouth.

"Edward." My name falls from her lips as she breaks the kiss, and I am lost. Her breathing is elevated while I shut my eyes and rest my forehead on hers.

"I'm sorry," I murmur, trailing my hands down her sides, resting them on her hips. For the love of God…she feels fucking fantastic.

"Sorry for…?" she asks, peaking up at me.

"Practically attacking you when you've only been here for five minutes," I say. She giggles and takes a step back from me. The first real, non liquor enhanced joyful sound I think I've heard from her. "I'm emotional when I paint." Her face falls slightly, disappointment flickers, and I see her start to shut down. "No! That's not what I meant. I mean, I am emotional when I paint, but that's not why I kissed you. I can hardly fucking control myself around you, Bella."

She smiles tentatively, and then her eyes fall to the floor. "Guess we should get these into a vase," she says, crouching down so I can see…directly down her sweater and the fact that she's got a grey lace bra on, pushing her tits up so they are practically on display for me.

I groan and crouch beside her. "I can do this," I say, collecting the flowers and standing up. I stare down and I know I'm openly gawking at her, but I can't stop myself. She looks up tentatively at me.

"A vase, Edward?"

"Right, yeah." I make my way to the kitchen and find a vase, trying to reel in my emotions. I fill it with water and set it on the counter while she sits on one of the stools. "Shit. I haven't even started dinner," I say, scowling at how I've let time slip away from me today.

"That's ok. I can help," she suggests.

"I'm supposed to be cooking for you, remember?"

"So? Didn't you tell me there's no crime in asking for help?" she asks, smirking at me.

"Yeah, I think I did say that." She blinks up at me and I'm momentarily frozen, passion, want, desire, all racing through me. "You're here. You're really here," I marvel, sounding like a complete idiot.

"Sure looks that way. Are you alright? I mean, you seem kind of out of it or something," she says, looking at me skeptically.

"I'm ok. It's just that today's been…a bit intense, to say the least."

"For me, too," she says. She looks down and twists her fingers together nervously before looking back up at me. "I need to talk to you about something actually."

"You do?" Oh fuck. What the hell is going on?

"Yeah, the guy from last night? His name was James. I saw him again today," she says quietly.

"You did, huh?"

"We went to get coffee after Alice's shopping trip from hell, and he was there with your art dealer, Jane? Anyway, Rose convinced him to donate something for the auction. I tried to stop her, but once he heard you were doing something, it was kind of like a mission for him," she says, shaking her head. "He's kind of creepy, actually."

"James is intense. He has a bit of a reputation and I don't want you anywhere near him, Bella," I say firmly.

"What are you talking about? What reputation?" she asks.

"I saw him last night with you. I don't know what he was doing there, but he was all over you," I say through gritted teeth. The anger spikes, warming my body, and fuelling the fire.

"Edward, I'm not interested in…"

"Just promise me that you won't put yourself in a situation where you'll be alone with him, Bella."

"Edward! I think you're over reacting. I hardly know him," she says, now looking pissed off at me.

"Please, just stay away from him. I can't even fathom…" I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to calm the fuck down, and then I feel her beside me, her hand on my arm, calming me.

"Relax, ok? Breath, Edward. Honestly, you're getting yourself all worked up for nothing," she says. "Why don't I start on dinner while you get cleaned up?"

"Oh, shit. I'm covered in paint," I finally acknowledge, running my fingers through my hair and looking down at the splatters of paint that cover me. I'm a disaster right now.

She looks up at me, her eyes dark and wanting. "Yeah, you are."

Fuck, she wets her bottom lip and it's all I can do to pull away from her. "Why don't we start with some wine," I suggest.

"Edward, this isn't going to be an apply-alcohol-insert-here-quick-fuck kind of a night," she says, issuing me her patented eyebrow quirk.

I'm momentarily speechless. I mean, did she think I just asked her here to fuck her? My dick twitches, just begging me to release it. Ok, so if by some sort of miracle that does end up happening, I'm not going to complain, but this is so much more than that. "Bella, trust me. When it happens, there won't be anything quick about it." She takes a sharp breath in and flushes almost a translucent burgundy, and I smile down at her, knowing I got the colour that now lives on the canvas right. I also know its time she sees what I've done because of her without the wine, so I can get her pure and raw reaction. "Come with me. There's something I need to show you," I say quietly.

My heart bangs against my chest, the anticipation overwhelming me while I hold my hand out to her. She looks at me skeptically as she laces her fingers with mine, and I pull her slowly towards the studio.

Chapter End Notes:

Oh, here we go. What's she going to think about the paintings?

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Shout out to the fabulous Belindella and her stories Poor Little Rich Girl and Forgettable. Go run and read!