All characterizations, plot lines, backgrounds and details belong to the author. 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. July 2010.

Thanks to my incredible beta xrxdanixrx, who provides the banner, and writes four amazing stories: Don't Try to Save Me, At Your Own Risk, Hate Me, and Here We Go Again. She is all kinds of wonderful!

Twilighted Beta – Shabbyapple. Thanks as always for turning these around so quickly.

Thanks to all reading and reviewing. Your reviews mean the world.

Shall we check in with Edward?

EPOV

Chapter 22

I lean against the door frame, watching Bella while she makes her way to her Jeep. Even with my oversized running pants practically falling off her, she looks fantastically delectable. My heart is beating a fucking mile a minute from that kiss, but also because tonight, we had what I consider to be a major breakthrough.

Even though I really, really wish she would have stayed the night, I understand the hesitation and the reasoning. The last thing I want is for her to feel uncomfortable. And in case she actually is ready sooner rather than later, I'll be getting one of the drying racks as soon as humanely possible. My dick twitches in agreement.

She climbs into the Jeep, gives me a quick wave, and then disappears down the street. I shut and lock the door, climbing the stairs to take in what I've painted tonight. The studio is a bit of a disaster with paint splattered everywhere and brushes just begging to be used again. I methodically clean up, taking my time and soaking in the palatable change in the feel of the room. It feels alive; I feel alive, like I haven't felt in months, if ever.

The painting for the auction is good…actually, it's more than good, and I wonder for a minute what James is going to create. That errant thought kills my Bella-induced buzz almost immediately. Goddamn James and Jane, too, for that matter. The pair of them deserve each other. I'll be relieved when this collection is finished and I can rid myself of her.

I know that I owe Jane a lot. She introduced me to people who would otherwise never have known my work existed. She opened doors when others shut them in my face. But, over the last few months, I've come to realize that I can do this without her. It's not as if I don't have other art dealers contacting me on a regular basis, and she knows it. The art world is a very small one, and to be honest, I think she's a little panicked about the thought of me going to another art dealer.

When my collection started selling, it sent a bit of a ripple through the community. Jane had clawed her way to the top with several older, successful, and well known artists. So, for her to take someone like me - a virtual unknown at the time - into her inner sanctum of contacts, was a bit shocking. With my success, hers only sky rocketed, and she milked it for all it was worth, luring new and talented artists to sign with her, promising them similar success.

Lately, that hasn't worked out too well for her. A few of the artists that she used to represent have gone out on their own. Some stopped creating altogether when the economy took a dive last year. Sure, she's had a few successful artists, but nothing to the scale of what we had.

What we had…I shut my eyes to try to rid myself of those particular memories. It's not as if she seduced me and it was all one sided. I'm fully aware that I was a willing and very active participant…for longer than I should have been. But now, well…it's just getting awkward. I need to get this collection completed and sold so I can walk away from her for good.

I know that's not going to be easy. Jane is persistent and her connections are impressive. Letting her go after this is done won't be easy, and she could make things extremely difficult for me. But, I also know it's worth it. I've made enough money to live extremely comfortably, and once I'm free of her, I know I'll ultimately be happier.

Once the studio is as cleaned as it can be, I make my way back up to the loft and crawl into a very empty, very cold bed. I long for Bella. Just to hold her, to feel her next to me…I relive how she felt downstairs, before she pulled away. I don't know how long I'm going to have to wait to be with her like that again.

I tried to establish some lame ass boundaries tonight, which were for her benefit only. God knows how the hell I'm going to stick to those, but I know I need to try to. Try and fail miserably most likely, because there is no way I'm going to be able to keep my hands off her for long. I've not felt anything like this, and I want her to be more than just some random fuck. I'm not entirely sure if she fully believes me, but I have to hope she does...no, actually, I have to prove that I mean what I said tonight.

Hearing her pour her story out was a defining moment for us, I think. She's got to be the strongest person I know, and I wonder briefly if I'm making a mistake. I'm not a good person. At least, I haven't been since Mom died and she deserves a good person. Not some shell of a pathetic excuse of a man that is just starting to realize the degrees of his inadequacy. And still, I know I'm not strong enough to stay away from her. She fuels my creativity, my desire, my want to be a better person - for her and for me. As I fall into a restless sleep, I wonder what she's thinking about, and I hope that it's me.

I wake to a steady morning rain and my cell phone buzzing relentlessly on the dresser. I whip the covers off and retrieve the phone, the typical morning wood aching and complaining. I glance at the display before answering. "Carlisle, its kind of early for a wakeup call, isn't it?"

"You never were very good in the morning, Edward. Are you still in bed? It's after ten-thirty. Oh, wait...ahhh…am I interrupting something?" he asks nervously.

I laugh quickly. "No. I just had a long night."

"Is everything, ok?" he asks, sounding concerned.

I snicker. It's going to take some getting used to having Carlisle actually give a shit about me, but he does appear to be trying. "Yeah. I'm fine. I just did a lot of painting last night," I explain, smirking to myself, and flashing back momentarily to Bella in the studio, covered with my brush strokes. The memory doesn't escape my dick, which is practically looking at me and just begging for release. I'm going to have to do something about this…soon.

"Are you free for brunch today? Esme and I would love to spend more time with you. Maybe you could show us what you've been working on," he suggests hopefully.

"Carlisle, I don't show my work to anyone before it's done." Well, apparently, now I do. But I don't want anyone other than Bella to see it before it's done.

"Oh, right," he says quietly.

I hear the regret in his voice and instantly feel horrible. "It's a collection, Carlisle. It's not done, so what you would see would be incomplete, and it probably wouldn't make a whole lot of sense. I can show you something I've done for the charity auction," I offer.

"Oh, that would be wonderful, Edward." Wonderful? It's extremely hard for me to wrap my head around the drastic change in Carlisle. The fact that he wants to spend time with me that doesn't involve scoping out hot women for him to fuck is a bit of a milestone.

I give Carlisle my address again, because he's lost it, and he tells me they'll be here within the hour. Nothing like jumping right in with both feet then, I guess.

I shower quickly, ignoring my raging hard-on, because I'm really trying to make an effort to be normal, and I'm fairly certain normal doesn't include whacking off eight times a day to whatever Bella-fantasy I've chosen to conjure up...or maybe for me, that is my normal.

After enduring the coldest shower in history, I move to the studio and double check that the paintings are covered before descending to the main floor to wait for Carlisle's impending visit.

When I open the door to them a few minutes later, he's standing there holding an umbrella over Esme, while the rain soaks him. They are laughing like little kids, which affects me more than it should. It reminds me of the person he used to be with mom, and I'm filled with regret, yet again, at the time we've both wasted. "Come on in. You guys are soaked," I say, holding the door open for them.

Once they've dried off and I've given them the mini tour, I lead them up to the second floor. "So,this is my studio," I say nervously. I don't know why I'm so tense. I mean, I know my work is good, but this is Carlisle...and I want him to like it.

"You have so many paintings!" Esme gushes, looking at the studio wide-eyed.

"Yeah, I paint in collections. Nineteen pieces," I say pointedly, my eyes locked to Carlisle's.

Carlisle stares back at me with some masked emotion, and then crosses the room to me purposefully. "She would be proud of you, Edward. I'm proud of you," he manages, his voice raspy. I'm floored that he realizes the significance of the number. That throughout his years of bullshit and womanizing, he grasps the concept of how important it is to both of us. He looks at me with sadness and then turns to the painting for the auction. "It's very vivid. Kind of intense."

"It's beautiful, Edward. You have a wonderful gift," Esme says sincerely. We stand silently in the studio, an unfamiliar warmth teasing me, and I wonder if it's possible for Carlisle and I to salvage our relationship. Carlisle smiles at me, his lips pressed together, fighting some other emotion it seems, and I wonder if he's thinking the same thing.

Brunch passes quickly with Esme going on about how I should donate more paintings; perhaps for cancer research. I nod my head in silent approval, which results in her practically smothering me with the force of a bear-like hug. She's stronger than she looks.

Through all of it, Carlisle just watches her adoringly. They are never physically separated by more than a few moments. They seem to gravitate to one another with reassuring touches and gentle squeezes. It's difficult for me to wrap my head around, but he genuinely seems to love her. Carlisle has thought about no one but himself for too long, and it's obvious that his recent experience has clearly changed him.

We make plans to see each other before they go back to Toronto next week. I watch them walk hand in hand, back to the Wedgewood hotel while Carlisle shields her from the rain with the umbrella, getting himself completely soaked in the process.

I decide to stop at James' store on the way home. While what happened outside the bar doesn't seem to have fazed Bella, the asshole needs to learn his place, and I intend to make sure he knows that's nowhere near her.

The kid with the piercings is behind the cash register again. I'm more than a little annoyed because I don't want to wait to have this conversation with James. The kid nods his head and continues to read whatever fascinating piece of trash magazine he has in front of him. "James is out back," he mumbles, looking bored.

"Thanks, man." I stalk to the back of the store. The shrieking sound of annoying rap music gets infinitely louder as I reach a tacky, beige beaded curtain, which stands between me and what James seems to equate to a studio. I stop abruptly. I know I'm dangerously close crossing a line right now and invading his space when he's probably working; something I know all too well and loathe when it happens to me. So, instead of just barging in on him, I knock on the wall. "James, you in there?" I ask, having to raise my voice over the vile rap song.

"Yeah, come on in," he hollers, sounding out of breath. I take a tentative step into the room and stop dead in my tracks. James is shirtless and sweating like a pig, painting his heart out, while some naked model lies across a waist level wooden table in the middle of the room. There's a fucking unfortunate visual that's going to stay with me for a while.

"Hey, man, sorry. I know you're working. I can come back," I say, keeping my eyes fixed to the ratty, stained grey carpet on the floor, and not wanting to see any more than I already have.

"No. It's cool, Edward. To what do I owe the honour of your presence in my studio?" he asks, not stopping his painting.

My eyes flicker to the naked model, whose eyes are glued to some fascinating pattern I'm sure she's imagining on the ceiling. There are deliberate thick, dark circles that look like they've been painted under her eyes. Her hands are stretched up over her head and tied together with a black silk ribbon. This gives me some idea of the type of painting James does, and while it's not at all my taste, I recognize that every artist is different, which is what makes us all so unique. I'm also fully aware that it's going to be awkward to have this particular conversation with him, under these circumstances.

"It's ok. I can talk to you later, James." I turn for the beaded curtain and distinctly hear him slam his brush down on the easel in front of him.

The blaring rap music stops abruptly and the blood starts to gush through my veins. The mood shifts immediately in the room. I know that James isn't going to let me just leave. "You're here, so it must be important. Just spill it, Edward."

I turn back to him and he's standing with his head cocked to the side, his jaw set, and an eyebrow raised as we stare at each other in lock down mode. The model is still lying there, not moving and completely oblivious. He's clearly daring me, and I'm not one to back down, especially from someone like James. "Jane told me you were donating something to the auction for The Foundation," I say, breaking the silence.

He smirks and shakes his head, returning his attention back to the easel. This gives me the opportunity to take in the rest of the studio, which is stark and bare. The only things in the small room are the table the model is on, the easel he's currently working with, and an old card table he has beside him, which houses his painting supplies. The only light in the room comes from a couple of exposed bulbs that hang from the ceiling from long wires and reflect in the multitude of mirrors he has lining the walls. The mirrors are distracting as hell, to say the least, as his reflection and mine bounce back to me from disturbing angles. I'm not sure how he can focus on painting with so much going on around him. It's sensory overload.

I remember my first studio, and for a nanosecond, I kind of feel for James. After university, I painted in the living room of my grungy apartment, which was, essentially, no bigger than a closet. I know what it's like to be where he is… before I got discovered…before Jane opened doors for me and changed everything.

"You came all the way down here to talk about the auction? Tell me something. Which one of the three fucked you to get you to agree to that bullshit?" he asks incredulously.

"I'm not fucking any of them," I say, snapping my eyes back to him.

"Really?"

"Yeah. Really, James."

He chuckles darkly. "Hmm, guess that means they're fair game, then. Not that it would stop me, anyway," he sneers.

I take a step towards him. "You stay the fuck away from Bella." I'm practically growling, my breath starting to come more quickly, my hands clenched so tightly they're starting to become painful.

He lowers the brush and turns to me, holding his free hand up as if in surrender. That's right, you prick. She's mine.

"Whoa, Edward. Chill the fuck out. The three of them are hot. You of all people should appreciate wanting to tap some of that," he says smugly.

"I'm only going to say this once, James. If you so much as fucking look the wrong way in her direction again..."

"Edward, what the fuck, man? What's gotten up your ass? I'm just talking about having a little fun. Are you so caught up in this tortured artist crap that you've forgotten what that is?" he asks, clearly mocking me.

I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the anger to settle. I open them and glance at the piece that James is painting, and all rational thought leaves me. It's the model's body, in perfect anatomical proportion, actually beautifully painted, the colours electrifying and vibrant, but, with Bella's face. Every detail; the depth of her eyes, her beautiful mouth, her thick hair cascading down and over one pert nipple. The fury boils and rages until I feel like I'm going to explode. "What the fuck is this?" I fume.

"I'm painting, Edward. You know? Inspiration and all? I got inspired," James taunts.

"You fucking prick." I cross the room to him, blinded by rage, unable to control the emotion that burns through me.

He places both hands on my chest and pushes me back forcefully, taking a protective stance in front of the painting. "Get a fucking grip, man! It's a painting. Relax." He glares at me and then he smirks. "She really is beautiful, isn't she?" He keeps his eyes narrowed and locked to mine as he lifts his head to the model, who is still lying oblivious on the table. "Such a fascinating subject, don't you think?" he asks.

"James, Bella and I are..."

"Are what, Edward? You're nothing to her, well, according to her, anyway," he says forcefully.

"What the fuck does that mean?"

"It means, before you go all ape-shit on me, maybe you better get your fucking facts straight. She told me you guys aren't together," he says firmly. What the fuck? When did Bella and James have a conversation about me?

"Watch your step, James. Bella is...important."

"Which is what? Code for you haven't fucked her yet? You know what? That's not my problem, so you can cut the brooding artist act. And what makes you think this is Bella, anyway? It's my interpretation of Heidi here." He flickers his eyes towards the model, who has now diverted her attention from the ceiling to us.

"You know that's Bella, James. She may as well be the one sprawled out and naked on your table," I shout back at him.

"Interesting that you can see a likeness. And your point is?" he asks, his eyes piercing.

"You don't see how fucked up that is?"

"No more fucked up than you barging into my studio all possessive and territorial and trying to stake a claim to someone who isn't yours. What's your inspiration these days, Edward? I'm curious." My mouth falls open. "Yeah, I thought so. Better take a look in the mirror before you go judging someone else's work. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a painting to finish." James turns back to the easel and resumes painting feverishly. "Arch your back a bit more, doll," he barks.

"I mean it, man," I warn.

"You mean what exactly, Cullen? You've got a lot of fucking nerve coming in here and threatening me. The last time I checked, this was my studio, and no, it may not be as fucking fancy or expensive as yours, but its mine, and right now, you're really starting to piss me off," he snarls.

"What exactly did you plan to do the other night at the bar with Bella?"

"What the hell are you talking about?" he asks, turning from the painting to glare at me.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about. Do you always wait outside of bars at night for vulnerable, drunk women?"

His face falls slightly, while the paint starts to drip from the brush onto the carpet. "What the fuck is this about, Edward? Are you worried about a little competition at the auction, or with Bella?" he asks pointedly.

"I'm not worried about anything, James," I snarl back.

"Then, what are you doing here, threatening me? This isn't fucking 1918, Edward. Bella is one feisty woman, and she can take care of herself," he says as if he knows a fucking thing about her.

"You don't know anything about Bella."

"I know enough to want to know more. And until she tells me otherwise, I'll keep trying to learn more," he says decisively.

The model sits up on the table and clears her throat. "Ah, as much as I'm enjoying seeing you two assholes piss all over each other, I'm on the clock here. Your hour is almost up, James, unless you want to pay another three hundred, which I'm all for taking from you. But this isn't a peep show, and I didn't sign on for an audience," she says firmly.

James narrows his eyes at me. "Like I said, Cullen…you're interrupting me," he grumbles. He turns back to the easel and switches the rap music back on, cranking the volume until it's painful.

It takes everything in me to back up from James and leave through the beaded curtain, knowing if I don't leave right now, things are going to turn extremely ugly. I also know that James is right on some level. I realize that this is just his version of the creative process, but I can't help but feeling sick to my stomach. He has no idea who Bella really is, and I have to believe she'd have an opinion with what he's painted; probably not a very good one. I bolt from his store, feeling drained and questioning everything I've painted since I met Bella.

Driving home is a blur. I have no idea how I'm standing in front of all of the canvasses, their covers off and on the floor of the studio. I study each one carefully, looking for something that tells me I did the right thing in painting them that I didn't just selfishly use her for this. That what I feel for her goes beyond what's painted up here.

I should have never gone to talk to James. I never question my work. Not once I've committed to it. And so, I do the only thing I can to rid myself of this sinking feeling. I switch on my iPod and I paint.

I paint for every fuck up I've ever had. For every day I didn't call Carlisle when I should have. For everything I've questioned in my life, and the things I hope to change. It's feverish, desperate, and for once, in this collection, it's inspired by me.

It's in stark contrast to the other finished pieces, but it also fits with them somehow. The canvas is separated down the middle with a thick, bold, black vertical line. An intricate mass of muted grey on one side bursts into simple, vibrant primary colours that swirl on the other side. I don't want to question myself anymore. I don't want to live the pathetic excuse of a life I had. I want more.

The track on the iPod switches from Holst to a more soothing Chopin, allowing me to actually hear that my cell phone is buzzing on the desk. I drop the brush on the desk and glance at the display. "Hey, Emmett."

"Hey, Emmett? Is that all you have to say to me? You're over an hour late, man. I've been trying to get you for the last half an hour," he says, sounding extremely pissed off.

Oh shit! Dinner at Bella's. "I'll be right there, Emmett. Fuck, I've been painting," I say, as if that's an appropriate explanation. Bella is going to fucking kill me.

"Jesus Christ, Edward! She was starting to think that you weren't coming. You can't do shit like this to her," he says.

"I'm coming, Emmett. Tell her I'm sorry. I'll be there in like twenty minutes." I take the stairs two at a time to the bedroom and whip off my paint encrusted jeans, cradling the phone between my head and my shoulder while he continues to chastise me.

"You can do your own apologizing, dude. It's not going to be pretty. Word to the wise, don't keep the women waiting. Trust me. Rosie kicks my ass every single time I'm late. Not that the make up sex isn't spectacular. I mean, sometimes, I even do it on purpose," he says, laughing to himself.

"Thanks for the visual there, Em. Tell her I'll be there soon, ok?"

"Yeah, yeah. Just get here, man."

I hang up from Emmett and change into fresh clothes, washing the paint off as much as I can from my face and hair. I can't believe I've painted for the entire day. I bolt down the stairs and into the wine room and grab a bottle of 2001 Giorgio Primo Chianti, for what I'm sure is now cold lasagna, and a 2006 Summerhill Zweigelt ice wine.

I arrive at Bella's in less than twenty minutes, silently thanking the traffic Gods that there were no accidents on the way. I can hear laughter coming from her open windows as I make my way to the door and knock tentatively, shifting nervously, the anticipation of seeing her burning through me. It hasn't even been twenty-four hours since I've seen her and it feels like an eternity. The door whips open and she cocks her head to the side, the raised eyebrow higher than normal while she glares at me from behind the screen door. "I'm sorry. I was painting, and time…"

"Got away from you?" she asks smugly.

"Yeah. I have wine," I say meagerly, holding up both bottles as a peace offering.

She smirks and I breathe a tentative sigh of relief that she doesn't appear pissed off…yet. "Come on in," she says, opening the screen door.

I take a step in and instantly feel calmer being back in her house…calmer and hard…really, really hard. "You look beautiful. I missed you," I say, shifting uncomfortably and willing the beast to behave. She's wearing a tight white tank top under a dark blue sweater that makes her look incredibly tempting.

"Really? You're always late when you miss someone?" she asks in disbelief. Oh shit…she is pissed off.

"I'm sorry. You know how I get when I paint and I just…there's no excuse, really. I'm an idiot," I say, shaking my head at just how pathetic I am.

"Well, now we're getting somewhere," she says, trying hard not to smile at me.

I feel a glimmer of hope that I haven't completely ruined the evening. "I hope you guys went ahead and ate," I say, turning my head towards the kitchen.

"Yeah, we were just thinking about dessert."

"Oh, perfect. I brought this," I say, holding up the ice wine.

"Another lesson in wine this evening?" she asks, looking up at me innocently.

Fucking hell. She's going to kill me. Just one look and I'm gone. "Yes. You'll love it. Trust me. There's something about ice wine." I hold the bottle out to her and she takes it from me, our fingers touching, sending the warmth straight through me.

She brushes her fingers over mine, which I pray she did intentionally, and she takes a step towards me. "There's something about you," she mumbles, looking up at me from under her lashes. "I'm glad you're here. I was starting to think that maybe…"

Holy fuck, don't look at me like that. My self control is hanging on by a thread right now. "Don't think that, ok? There isn't anywhere else I want to be right now, Bella," I say firmly, begging her to believe me.

"Really?" she asks, her eyes pleading with me.

I reach for her hand and lace my fingers with hers, squeezing gently. "Really. Let's go learn about ice wine."

"If you insist," she says, pulling me towards the kitchen. I stifle a groan and follow her towards the crowd at the table while my dick complains. It's going to be an extremely long night.

Chapter End Notes

Enjoy: Holst's Jupiter: www(dot)youtube(dot)com/watch?v=3B49N46I39Y

Chopin Ballade No. 1: www(dot)youtube(dot)com/watch?v=RR7eUSFsn28

Thanks for reading and reviewing!

Up next BPOV and lovely ice wine.

Twitter: CarLemon