Omega Artist: A Hero Club Novel

by Hope Irving

  About This Book

  Omega Artist is a standalone story inspired by Vi Keeland and Penelope Ward’s Stuck-Up Suit.

  It's published as part of the Cocky Hero Club world, a series of original works, written by various authors, and inspired by Keeland and Ward's New York Times bestselling series.

  To find out more about all the Cocky Hero Club World titles and authors, visit http://www.cockyheroclub.com

  Contents

  Copyright

  No Woman No Cry

  1. You Are My Sunshine

  2. We Are Warriors

  3. Somebody that I Used to Know

  4. Bang a Gong (Get it On)

  5. I Was Hoping

  6. Lucid Dreams

  7. Virtual Insanity

  8. U + Ur Hand

  9. My Strange Addiction

  10. Somebody to Love

  11. Mercy

  12. Buttons

  13. Take Me Out

  14. Titanium

  15. A Kiss to Build a Dream On

  16. Womanizer

  17. Everybody’s Changing

  18. Worth It

  19. Shape of My Heart

  20. Shape of You

  21. It Takes a Lot to Know A Man

  22. Boys Don’t Cry

  23. Scars to Your Beautiful

  24. Woman

  25. I’ve Never Been in Love Before

  26. Without You

  27. Head over Feet

  New Soul

  Cocky Hero Club

  Omega Artist - Playlist

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Hope Irving

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2020 by Hope Irving and Cocky Hero Club, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the authors’ imaginations. Any resemblance to actual persons, things, living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Editing: Sarah TORPEY / Proofreading: Eileen PROKSCH

  Cover Design: Simon FRANKLIN

  Photo Credit: Kittiwat Junbunjong from Pixabay

  “So often in life, things that you regard as an impediment turn out to be great, good fortune.”

  Ruth Bader Ginsburg

  No Woman No Cry

  PROLOGUE

  Tig

  “You’re gonna be late.” My brow knits. “Again.” I can’t resist smacking Delia’s plump ass playfully. Bewildered, she shrieks and jumps, giggling, and her long dark curls follow.

  Bob is singing per usual, filling our Brooklyn apartment with perfect vibes. It’s been settled for years: the day that Delia graces me with a child, whether it’s a he or a she, the kid’s name will be Marley. Plain and simple. No second thoughts.

  “I’m never late!” My wife flips me the bird, her big brown eyes dancing with glee. Damn, I adore this fiery woman! We’re not even thirty, and over twelve years have already passed since our first kiss. Right in the middle of our small colorful kitchen, I lean her way and plant a kiss on her cheek. She immediately relaxes. “I make a point to be early when it’s a new venue.”

  Agitated, she swipes her oversized purse from the kitchen stool and scurries out of the room to find her car keys, and when I hear the telltale sound of a zipper, a smile tugs at my lips.

  I’m familiar with all of her little idiosyncrasies by now. I cherish all of her little habits by now. I revel in all of her little obsessions by now. Buying mostly organic is one. Daring me to do something insanely stupid every Friday the thirteenth is another. Misplacing her car keys is also typical.

  Meanwhile, I’ve been cleaning up after our Saturday breakfast: dishes in the dishwasher, food in the cabinets, juice in the fridge… And, of course, the coffee pot is still hot.

  Delia’s deep voice tears me out of my reverie. I shake my head to escape my trip down memory lane; I often get stuck inside my head, and our late night doesn’t help me focus on the present. Smiling, I look in her direction only to register that her light jacket is already on and she’s ready to depart. I take a deep breath, and the mixed aromas of coffee, weed, and her unique feminine fragrance suddenly assault my nostrils. Yesterday’s party definitely took its toll on our beauty sleep; Delia and I don’t smoke like we used to, but we enjoy a rare joint on special occasions. Needless to say, Soraya and especially Mr. Big Prick—I mean Soraya’s husband Graham—disapprove, but yesterday evening fit the bill.

  “The distance to middle of nowhere upstate New York won’t be an issue, trust me. And if you’d talk less, I could actually go pick up Soraya.”

  “Oh, right! I forgot that she was tagging along.”

  “Well, she basically begged me, claiming that she needed a break from Lorenzo.” I seem to remember her telling me that they’ll get back home late tomorrow afternoon. “He’s barely a year old!” Delia’s famous for exaggerating: Lorenzo’s eighteen months old. “Who’d want to abandon that adorable boy’s side for more than a second?”

  “Our best friend, apparently.” My wit earns me a sloppy kiss in haste, and I slap her ass again as it disappears behind the door.

  Her last words resonate through the door. “Shame on her!”

  The tornado that is my lovely wife is away for the weekend, piercing strangers’ body parts that I’m not eager to tally, and shortly after, I’m off to Tig’s Tattoo and Piercing. Yeah, yeah, we should’ve come up with something more original or witty to name the tattoo parlor that we co-own on Eighth Avenue! Well, we couldn’t agree for once, so on a drunken night prior to our opening years ago, Soraya suggested putting names on scraps of paper and picking one at random. Work ethic, a safe environment, and word-of-mouth have helped our small family-owned business to thrive. We’ve considered renaming it, but success picked up quickly, and it’d be counterproductive at this point. Given Delia’s efforts to boost our online presence, the name will definitely stick.

  The drizzle that covers my face when I exit the subway annoys me. Thankfully, it’s only a short walk.

  “Thanks for opening the parlor for me, Claire,” I say in a cheerful voice, waving to the tall girl with long purple dreadlocks. “Sorry for running late this morning. Delia’s little adventure didn’t help. She always takes forever to get ready and worries that she’ll forget something. And you know the drive makes her nervous, especially with this unpredictable November weather. I’m just hoping that Soraya will be behind the wheel.” My wife is such a crazy driver—typical Jersey girl!

  Laughing at the thought, I peel off my wet coat and am about to head to the back of the shop when Claire nods and replies, “No problem.” She’s never been talkative, but she’s damn good at her job.

  I check my watch and grumble to myself, “Where the fuck are you, Marco?” I hate when my cousin’s late. He obviously cares since he was the one to offer to hold down the fort until we find a hostess. We had a temp who stole from us when we first filled the position, and we’ve had a hard time trusting the applicants since. Luckily, Marco was out of a job at the time and stepped in… I probably shouldn’t be glad about his jobless situation, but I am! Not that I’ll ever admit that to him, though.

  I take a look around, paying special attention to make sure that nothing’s missing from the stations where Claire and I will be working today. Out of habit, I take m
y rings off to wash my hands.

  We take pride in giving each client the best experience possible. You see, Delia and I usually work hand in hand, so to speak; she handles the piercings and I work on tats. She lives for these gigs—fairs, conventions, and markets—and this one gives her and Soraya a chance for some solo girl time, which has been more sporadic lately. My wife and I are happy to share our best friend, and Soraya is adamant that she instantly gained a friend when I grew closer to Delia in junior high. Back then, I was relieved that the two of them hit it off, and now we’re glad that sassy Soraya has found her significant other. Prior to Graham, her romantic life was a challenge which she blamed on being a loser magnet rather than on her Italian smart mouth. Yes, our best friend has her hands full with her busy high-maintenance husband, their baby son, and Graham’s daughter, Chloe, who spends her weekends with them so that she can stay with her mom on weekdays for school.

  My own life was the polar opposite; from the moment that I set eyes on the curvy Delia, I knew that I would belong to her forever. I’d be lost without her in my life. There isn’t a day that we don’t bicker like teenagers, because we love it. There isn’t a day that we don’t want to be together, because we love it. There isn’t a day that we don’t enjoy working side-by-side, because we love it.

  Our booming business recently required two adjustments to accommodate more clients. The first one is to our schedule, adding Sunday morning walk-in appointments, which allows us to hire some regular help, like Claire, here and there. The second one is the pro bono customers—that Delia refers to as survivors—that I gladly help, whether they’re victims of violence or self-harm or recovering patients.

  I walk back up front and nod at Marco, who finally retrieved his pretty face from his muscular ass and made it here. I pretend to scold him as Claire leads her first client of the day to her work area. Moments later, the bell over the door rings and a quiet dark-haired girl in her early twenties comes in, eyes glued to her feet and swirling her perfectly groomed straight hair around her index finger. Next thing I know, her Burberry rain jacket lands on the coat rack. A couple more steps, and she pauses to assess the place before settling on us. Then, her eyes return to her riding boots in record time; they’d be more at home on Fifth Avenue, but what do I know about all that?

  I don’t miss the raunchy once-over that she gives me, nor do I miss the flush that colors her pale face. Marco elbows me, and I regret that he saw that too. Trust me, I’m flattered by the attention I get. All the same, her game is clear: everything about her screams preppy girl in search of an adventure.

  “Hello, my name’s Sybil…” I have the hardest time understanding her last name, but I don’t interrupt. “I have an appointment today.” Her accent is strong. Her nervous smile is painful. Her obvious cluelessness is endearing.

  Marco and I exchange a knowing glance; despite making the first move, her face wears a wild expression that proves her bravery has limits. That’s why the fact that she already made an appointment puzzles me. Usually, the first step is either to chat with us via our website or social media, call, or pay us a visit.

  Interesting…

  “I have an appointment,” she repeats, “with…” She stares alternatively between me and Marco. In spite of the family resemblance, if she checked our website, she shouldn’t be mistaken. She retrieves the latest iPhone from her Prada purse—is she the devil in disguise or what?—“Tig,” she announces, reading the information from said phone.

  “You must be my 10:30. Welcome, I’m Tig.”

  She extends her hand for me to shake, which I’m not used to, and the second our eyes actually meet, she averts my gaze to her feet again and her face turns beet red.

  Embarrassment. Shyness. Infatuation… At least, that’s what Delia claims, and she’s probably right. My creative wife has her own take on this common occurrence that I still struggle with. Having clients check us out is apparently part of the job. Admiring the works of art that are our bodies is apparently part of the job. Being interested in our appearances is apparently part of the job. Anyway, I’m not bragging, but clients do check me out. A lot.

  To be honest, most people would prefer picture-perfect Graham, with his expensive suits and CEO look, over me. Don’t get me wrong, I’m well aware that I have the reckless bad boy vibe going on. The tats. The height. The attitude. And let’s not forget that I’m an artist. That’s where the true appeal lies, I think. Add to this that I’m far from repulsive… minus one tiny detail (and I’m not talking about my dick!).

  “Do you have anything in mind?”

  “Yes… no… I’m a virgin, you know.” It’s my turn to blush at her blunt revelation. Suddenly, we’re in a cartoon. She’s Little Red Riding Hood and we’re the wolves. What the hell was that?

  “Fuck me!” My cousin’s jaw drops so low it almost hits the counter. It’s not an invitation, though she’s attractive, rather an expression of his utter shock.

  “Shut up, Marco.” I slap his bulging bicep. He deserves it. Why else would he wear a short-sleeve tee-shirt the weekend before Thanksgiving, except to show off his ridiculously impressive muscles?

  At once, her hands go flying in denial. “No, no, no, I didn’t mean it like that.” Somehow, I’m relieved, although I shouldn’t really care. She’s addressing me, holding my gaze this time. “I meant to say that I’m a virgin… tattoo-wise. I don’t have a single one.” She shrugs. “I’m here to rectify that.”

  “Can I see some ID?”

  “Wow, you’re a buzzkill, Mister Tig!”

  “Mister Tig?” Marco exclaims. “If anyone in the family could portray Mister T, it would be me!” She offers him a small smile. “Hey, I’m Marco.” He clearly finds her to his liking. But he’s aware of the rule: no messing with the customers until their follow-up appointment.

  To cut this conversation short—mostly the part that involves Marco—after checking her French passport, I grab a couple of folders filled with samples of my work that might give her some ideas and stroll towards the back. “Follow me.” I hear her footsteps keep pace without another word.

  Once she’s sitting across from me, she browses through the designs and starts babbling between my explanation of the process and our exchange regarding her choice of design and location. She’s here for a family funeral. She’s part American on her mother’s side. She’s a Parisian who intends to study in the U.S.

  “I’m sorry, I guess talking helps calm my nerves.”

  “No problem.” I listen to her for a bit more, and we discuss her options. After showing her a few pictures, she settles on a small bird escaping from a cage, to be placed on the right side of her inner thigh.

  O-kay.

  First, I sketch it so that we agree on the style and proportions.

  “Let’s do this.” Her voice sounds shaky. Her tone rings too excited. Her words seem forced. But as soon as they leave her mouth, her body relaxes, so I snap on my gloves and get down to business.

  I can’t wait to see Delia tomorrow for our dinner date!

  The entire time, she pours out her life story that I listen to absentmindedly, but I mostly concentrate on work.

  I miss Delia like crazy right now!

  Her oppressive father hates tattoos. This will be her dirty little secret…

  Dirty is my plan after our dinner date!

  This isn’t the first time that a client’s mistaken me for a shrink. I don’t mind the confession, but it’s not my job, so I nod, shrug, and mumble.

  Damn, my life is so simple compared to yours, miss!

  Once I’m done, she tugs on her designer jeans, hugs me and mutters a thank you into my ear, and flees the confined space. Her intimate gesture unsettles me.

  “I’m a sucker for heavily tattooed men,” she whispers.

  It’s not much of a leap, considering that several swirls escape from my collar, and who would do that if not tattooed elsewhere, right? Refusing to acknowledge her flirting, I peel my gloves off and go wash my ha
nds in the corner of the small room, where I’m startled to find my rings sitting beside the sink. I must have been extremely preoccupied to forget to put them back on. I do now. And that’s when she sees it, the tiny detail: my wedding band. Instantly, her eyes widen, and she bites her lip, but she doesn’t comment. Why would she?

  Prior to dashing out of the parlor to join Marco, who’s outside smoking, she says, “I’m glad that I chose you to take my virginity,” between clenched teeth.

  Sure, whatever.

  See what I said about the bad boy appeal? And I would never take advantage of it because I’m married and adore my wife. Because I voiced my vows and have no intention of breaking them. Because I’ll always belong to one woman, until death do us part.

  While Delia’s gone, I don’t hear much from her, aside from a few texts. Either way, we’re not one of those couples who spends hours glued to our phones when we’re apart. As much as I’m looking forward to hearing about the fun she’s having, I bet she’s swamped with work and I refrain from calling her both Saturday and Sunday.

  Remember, she said something about the crappy connection anyhow.

  It won’t make much of a difference anyway. Her side of the bed will only be cold for one night, so I sprawl in the middle to keep it warm. Must be why I’m dragging when I wake up on Sunday.

  Thank God, work is great and flies by, but I still miss her and am eager to catch up at tonight’s reunion.