Omega Artist: A Hero Club Novel

by Hope Irving

  “Wha—” I manage to say after chewing. “As much as I would have been honored to do so, that’s impossible.” It takes me a few seconds to carry on, unsure of what to reveal. “I was otherwise attached at the time, so…”

  “And yet, you did. I would show you, but it wouldn’t be appropriate in public. So, I guess it’ll have to wait until later.”

  “Show me what?”

  She winks playfully. “My ink. The one that you put on my inner thigh a couple of years ago. A cage. A bird. An escape.”

  I don’t remember a thing, but I nod, relieved by her admission. “My pleasure. Are you happy with it?”

  “Absolutely, Tig.” Fuck, she even remembers my real name… well, nickname really. I worry the corner of my lip while her penetrating blue eyes undress me. “You don’t have a clue about me, do you?” I shake my head, ready to apologize and explain that I meet a lot of people through my job. She has no idea what I’ve endured since the last time we crossed paths; how could she? “I was shocked when I came across your profile picture. You’ve changed a bit, cut your hair… maybe lost some weight?”

  “Yup, I’m working on getting back in shape.”

  “Small world, huh?”

  I chuckle at that. If she’s being honest, and I’m sure she is, this is an odd coincidence.

  Throughout dinner, the conversation flows, and she tells me that she’ll be graduating with a degree in interior design—so much for omitting personal details, but I don’t disclose much and she already knows too much—and will soon return to her hometown of Paris.

  Oh, that’s where her accent is from.

  To my dismay, the evening ends differently than usual. Most of the time, we end up in a hotel, since the girls I tend to pick are from out of town. Every now and then, we go to a studio that I rent out to paint; it’s nowhere near where I live or where I work.

  Tonight PrincessChanel has a special request. “Take me to your parlor.”

  It’s been a while since I’ve felt this good without any extra help. Seeing myself through her hungry eyes is flattering. I feel better. I feel strong. I feel brave.

  She knows more about me than the rest of the girls I’ve met, but what’s the big deal? Hence, I oblige.

  Moments later, she walks into Tig’s Tattoo and Piercing like she owns the place. “It’s good to be back.” She knows exactly where she wants to be taken. Hence, I oblige.

  She peers at the chair where I took her virginity. “I’m a sucker for heavily tattooed men,” she whispers. The sense of déjà vu returns, but her name still eludes me. “Now, fuck me, Tig de Luca.” She knows even more than I thought she did. Hence, I oblige.

  The sound of our mingling flesh. The noises of our carnal pleasure. The music of our desperate release. Spent, we stay on the sticky seat, glued to each other, for what seems like hours. Her long hair is splayed across my upper body, and I find it strangely erotic. Granted, what we partook in was far more X-rated. Now, her ear is on my chest, and I know that she’s listening to my heartbeat. This night must have messed with my mind because I break my own rule and hear myself asking if she’s free tomorrow night. Of course, she is. Relief and fear settle inside my chest. Relief, since tonight was gratifying in every sense of the word. Fear, since I wasn’t expecting to react this way.

  Relax, man. PrincessChanel knows the drill. There’s no harm in fucking her again; she’ll go back to Paris soon enough.

  “Would you at least tell me your name now?” She giggles like a school girl.

  “Sybil.”

  Chapter Two

  We Are Warriors

  Aliénor

  “Fuck… Oh, fuck…” His masculine voice isn’t as deep as I’d like, which must be why I can’t bring myself to open my eyes and aim them at Louis. In spite of this, my eager mouth is running along his ballsack, making his knees buckle.

  “Damn, you’re good.” His entitled opinion regarding my abilities isn’t solicited; I’m confident in my skills, thank you very much. His comment has the opposite effect, and I picture someone different in my mind’s eye and brace myself to continue. Nevertheless, my willing lips pepper featherlight kisses all over his proud erection, while my hand applies the right pressure around its root. He caresses the top of my head, which I despise, but I smirk when I hear him growl. I guess that my long blonde hair is getting in the way and spoiling his visual; the guy must watch too much porn.

  In all honesty, now that I think about it, I should have ended this the last time that I saw him.

  Louis and I were introduced a few months ago at a mutual friend of a friend’s birthday party and we hit it off. He was athletic, funny, and amiable. Another perk was that, for once, Father hadn’t pushed me into this relationship by interfering with my life, as usual. Anyway, it didn’t take long for me to sample the goods and discover that he’s too self-centered to be an attentive lover, to say the least.

  That first time, clueless Louis struggled to find and appropriately push my pleasure button. I remember tutoring him on the female anatomy and erogenous zones while in action. Thankfully, he’s been a fast study, so I overlooked the fact that the spark that I felt for him as a person wore off when we were between the sheets. So, you’re probably wondering why I’m here, in his Parisian bachelor pad, with his uncut dick facing me. Apparently, I dig a challenge, and Louis has a reputation of being too busy to keep a girl for more than a couple of days. For some twisted reason, I was flattered that he felt differently about me; I even wondered if it would turn into something steady.

  I should have known better. His lack of genuine interest in my pleasure, his laziness in the bedroom, and his uncut dick weren’t good omens. The latter should have been my cue to run for the hills. I blame it on the Anglo-Saxon in me, but I prefer a man to be clean cut, which isn’t the norm in France. Sue me! But I persevered. Only his… glitch reinforced my initial reluctance to drop to my knees, not because I’m delicate, but rather because I wrongly associated it with accepting a submissive role. Not that there’s anything wrong with that if you’re into it, but I’m not. If anything, I’m the epitome of the anti-submissive. It took several interesting conversations with my third boyfriend to realize that, in doing so, I held all the power, but let’s not get into that now. For the moment, I put the pedal to the metal and push the disturbing thoughts to the back of my mind.

  “Yeah, just like that, babe.” His encouragements increase as his breathing becomes ragged, but I can’t stand his term of endearment. It reflects his true commanding self and I scold myself for not noticing it sooner. Instinctively, I pause for a second and pop my brown eyes open to capture his. He interrupts my rambling thoughts. “Why d’ya stop?” Despite his whiney complaining undertone, his pleading question amuses me, nearly as much as the desperate expression that flashes in his eyes. I resume my TLC. “Right there… oh, fuck.” Here we go again with the expletives. Though I’m fond of showing how much I’m enjoying myself and giving instructions, I’m not a fan of the chatty ones. I tune him out and concentrate on the task at hand, swirling the tip of my tongue around the sensitive head of his cock and sending him into overdrive. He’s reduced to grunts as he shivers under my ministrations. I picture the faceless and extraordinary man that my imagination has fabricated over the years, once my eyes are shut again.

  “Stop teasing and suck it already!” Wrapping my long, blonde hair around his hand, he yanks me closer, and I let him, suppressing my gag reflex as he relentlessly slams into the back of my mouth. I inhale through my nose as I let him fuck my mouth. No matter how compliant he thinks I am, I don’t really allow him to set the pace. I’m the one in control here. I’m the one holding his balls to prove it. I’m the one who takes him to the brink and slows down before finally putting an end to this charade.

  “Fuck, you’re as gifted as they say.”

  I had heard of his reputation and had no doubt that mine preceded me, but I’d never fathomed he’d express it; I’m as gifted as they say. Who the fuck are they? />
  Hurt, I stand up tall, run my thumb over my mouth to erase the evidence of what he referred to as the blow-job of the century, and swallow my pride as well as the last drop of him. The satisfied expression that lingers on his face as he awkwardly tucks his flaccid cock into his boxer briefs tells me plenty, and I glare at him in return.

  As I exit the bedroom, I turn back to him and snarl, “Go fuck yourself! You don’t deserve me or my talents.” Fortunately, I didn’t take my clothes off today. I show myself out and slam his front door behind me.

  Good riddance.

  Céline pours some more coffee into my empty cup, oblivious to the argument that takes place at the table of our Parisian dining room. She’s worked for my parents long enough to be cognizant of when to make herself invisible. I thank her and finish off my warm pain au chocolat that melts in my mouth.

  Sunday brunch is a family tradition that goes back as far as I can remember. Mother, who subtly ruled the roost, decided that it was important for us to gather as a family and take a break from our busy lives. When she wasn’t attending to one of her numerous obligations, she enjoyed spending time on mundane things such as reading, and gardening, and teaching us to play chess. She was the glue that held us together, and brunch was as sacred to my parents as a good education.

  The tradition took on a whole other meaning when Mother got sick; I believe that Father thought that sticking together and forming an impenetrable front would help my mother’s tough battle against breast cancer. I guess that didn’t suffice since she lost it, and consequently what started as a family gathering where everyone spoke freely evolved into a more controlling exchange. He took his self-appointed job of ensuring our well-being and wouldn’t accept any excuses. That’s why my sisters’ spouses aren’t allowed.

  It’s been months since we were all present. My oldest sister, Sybil, recently got back from the States after spending time with our relatives and completing yet another degree. We’re the only two single girls left. At the moment, Father seems more worried about my situation than hers.

  When my now married sisters were preteens, I remember Father advising them to date boys that ran in the same circles. He claimed it was easier to be courted by someone with shared values, but that was about it; Mother agreed to some extent.

  I’m trying really hard to keep my temper in check, but my foot’s rapid tapping on the leg of the chair is a clear sign of how poorly I’m doing. Father’s irrepressible need to meddle in my love life—for lack of a better word—puts me on edge every single time.

  “You cannot decide to stop seeing Philippe de Turgot’s son without consulting me first, you understand.” Father’s voice is collected, but I don’t miss the spite in it. He slathers a slice of baguette with butter and strawberry jam, takes a bite of his tartine, and wipes his mouth with his heavy-cotton napkin.

  Despite my escalating anger, the corner of my mouth quirks up when I notice how he clutches his napkin. This mundane gesture shows everything about my father. His ancestry. His heritage. His status. And our embroidered monogram. GdB. Three letters that express so much. To him. To us. To our world. Honor. Courage. Valor.

  “That isn’t the way it’s supposed to be and you should know better.”

  Oh, right! The way it’s supposed to be.

  Inside, I fume and grind my teeth to the point that it hurts. Outwardly, I cast my eyes down after shooting a murderous glare at my autocratic father. “Your friendship with Louis’s father doesn’t mean you can force me to date him.” I take a sip, thankful for the taste of warm coffee and the reprieve it gives me. The weight on my shoulders grows heavier as I recall how Louis treated me. Bile rises into my mouth, and I force myself to swallow it.

  Were we dating? I’m struggling to label our time together appropriately. Certainly not a relationship, it didn’t last long enough anyway. A case of trial and error? A hookup? A mistake?

  Father would be less than thrilled to hear that, and my sisters would probably judge me as well… It’s not a proper behavior for a girl. From an early age, I’ve heard this repertoire of bullshit and felt the pressure attached to it, over and over. You know the drill, right? Girls should watch their tone and language. Girls should do what’s expected of them. Girls should remain virgins until marriage. Would Charles Godefroy de Briard act the same if he had sons, or would he have allowed them to have minds of their own?

  It’s true that boys are pressured, too, only we live in a patriarchal world, and I refuse to submit to outdated rules that have hardened over time, at least as far as my family is concerned. Considering my lifestyle, some would envy me, and I’m far from complaining, but it comes with strings attached. Money and status aren’t everything, and that’s certainly not what I’m looking for in a man. I’m not a sucker for alpha males. I want more, so much more… My best friend, Sophie, claims that I have impossible standards. What does that even mean?

  “Of course, I can.” He sounds so convinced that it’s frightening. “Also, Philippe and I are strictly business partners.”

  Right, Father views marriages as transactions that mutually benefit the lineage and the business. As it happens, Louis will one day rightfully inherit his father’s international clothing empire. Both his studies and pedigree attest to it. “What could Louis have done that precipitated his disgrace? He seems like a fine young man.”

  Right now, the only answer that he deserves is: mind your own fucking business…

  Oblivious to my inner turmoil, my father is on a roll. “It’s not about dating anyway. It’s about finding a suitable husband. Is that too much to ask?”

  I get it. He’s worried about my reputation because it’s common knowledge that I’m not attached to one guy. Worried that no suitable man would be interested in me because people whisper that I’m scandalous. Worried that no potential husband will come to respect me because of my history. Hearing things through the grapevine must piss him off. Why people feel the need to talk behind my back is beyond me. It doesn’t bother me in the least. It doesn’t deter me from searching for the right man. It doesn’t stop me from living my life. I mean, I could be hit by a bus tomorrow and not live. I’ve learned the hard way that life’s too short.

  I have a strong sense of ethics and live by the rules that I’ve been taught. None of them apply when it comes to sex. Freedom. Selfishness. Pleasure. If I desire someone, I don’t waste time, make my interest known, and test the goods. Goods that I enjoy, I keep. Goods that I don’t, I discard. Goods that I’ve experienced so far haven’t struck my fancy. Consequently, I keep testing out the countless suiters brought forth by my father, among other acquaintances. I’ve never cheated on anyone. I’ve never acted on my desires if there isn’t a spark. I’ve never bragged about my sex life that most refer to as my dating status.

  I don’t despise men; my personal battle is on a different level.

  I can’t wrap my head around the fact that we live in a world that’s mainly ruled by men, and women—who make up half of the population—simply have to accept it. I can’t wrap my head around the fact that I’m called a slut for something that earns a man the moniker of legend. I can’t wrap my head around the fact that sex could be considered dirty or filthy between consenting adults. I don’t do the walk of shame. I embrace my post-coital glow with pride, even if I’m not 100% satisfied with the results. They’ll come and go through a revolving door until I find the right one. I’m promiscuous? There’s no question my scandalous reputation would be completely reversed if I were a man. I’ve heard awestruck comments for men who behave the way that I do, or way worse.

  “Trust me, he would never have made a suitable husband. And for the record, I’m twenty years old, I don’t want, let alone need, a husband. All I want is to find the right man for me, and in order to accomplish that, I have to discover whether we’re compatible or not, Dad!”

  Yeah, compatibility in every department, Father!

  Calling him Dad is a rare occurrence. I’m pretty sure that it hasn’t ha
ppened in a decade, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Clearly, the implication of my words unsettles him as I notice his shoulders tensing. He doesn’t appreciate exactly how much I take after him. We have our straightforwardness in common, yet he chooses to disregard certain aspects of my life.

  My irrepressible need to leave the table must be obvious, and I almost miss Blanche subtly shaking her head to stop me. She’s my senior by three years and much wiser than I am... Sybil’s hand tightens around mine in a short, silent show of support. Meanwhile Margot and Caroline pretend to be otherwise occupied munching on their homemade brioches. I shouldn’t be surprised by this conversation or my sisters’ behavior.

  “Don’t use that tone with me, young lady.”

  Frustrated, I mull over Father’s comments.

  Damn, I hate that I’m so much like Father!

  I’m the only one whose looks take after my father. I’m the only blonde among the women in the family. I’m the only one who can’t help but speak her mind. I do admire him, and I’m glad that we have similar tastes in reading and classical music. Once upon a time, he went to Julliard to study orchestral conducting, and I was the only one in the family to play an instrument—the violin—not that I’ve played for years, but that’s what brought us so close. He met my mother, who was studying vocal arts to become an opera singer, while in the U.S. Neither of them pursued their dreams once life, etiquette, and expectations overruled them. Her wealthy Bostonian family. His aristocratic Parisian family. Their fairytale wedding and relocation to our spacious apartment in the 7th arrondissement, that feels empty without her.

  Damn, I miss Mother!

  Father and I may look like and have some overlapping traits and interests, but Mother and I shared a special bond. Her selflessness and righteousness made her an extraordinary person. When she died, a part of me died, too. With her gone too soon, the next best person was Catherine, my nanny. Now that she’s gone, too, I don’t really trust anyone.