Omega Artist: A Hero Club Novel

by Hope Irving

  “When’s your next break?” That earns me a pleased chuckle.

  “Straight to the point, aren’t you?” In the dim light, his pupils dilate further from lust.

  “I don’t see why not.” The fingers of my right hand toy with the table cloth.

  “True.” A knowing smile brightens his amiable face, and he leans his upper body across the table to whisper in my ear. “Ten minutes.” Then he straightens and brushes my fingers with his. “There’s this room… where I keep my stuff. It’s on the other side of the apartment, by the catering area. I locked it.” He tells me to find the door with a sign that says Privé. Patting the pocket of his black pants, he adds, “I have the key.” His deep, reassuring voice stirs welcome tingling in all the right places. “I’ll meet you there once I’m done here. Fifteen-minute break.” That’ll do.

  Damn, I need to fuck you, Goran.

  I make a point to verify that his fingers are skillful on more than one type of equipment. His tongue, too. He doesn’t disappoint on either front. Then, once my tights and undies are out of the way, we proceed to fuck like rabbits. Him, butt-naked on the couch, thrusting his pelvis upward frantically. Me, my legs straddling him so that I’m in the ideal position to get myself off while my hands course all over his taut torso. Us, joined in raw pleasure. Quickly, fine with that! Shamelessly, thanks for that! Quietly, too bad for that!

  Panting, our lips don’t meet once, but from our matching ruddy faces and satisfied expressions, it’s obvious that we both enjoyed the diversion. He thanks me, which I find endearing, and we part ways. I get back to my so-called friends before he takes post behind his table. My heart beats faster, and I feel more alive than I did minutes ago.

  There’s dancing. There’s drinking. There’s eating. Tiny desserts, to be precise.

  “I’ll grab you some more,” I offer to my friends. “Who wants what?”

  Requests include anything chocolate, tiramisu, and babas au rhum. Unfortunately, one of my spiteful exes stands between me and the food display with a proud smile stretched across his stupid face.

  “Well, well, well, look who’s here!” His snide tone tells me to brace myself. “Looks like you’ve had your appetizer with the DJ…” See! What the fuck does he care? “Who’s going to be the main course?” And the asshat dares to smirk at me. He fucking smirks and eyeballs me with such contempt, I want to punch his nip-tucked nose. Within seconds, he shoots a look in Goran’s direction with an expression that’s so different than the one he gave me that bile fills my mouth. It disgusts me only because it’s all too familiar: awe.

  I put on my poker face. “I don’t think that’s any of your concern.” I’m about to say more when a thought fuels my outrage.

  We were gone no more than ten minutes!

  “Well, we were an item once.” Not quite. “A random DJ nailing you in the bathroom like the slut you are is bad for my image…” Since when is this about you, moron?

  “It would have been wise to behave since our families have common interests.” What? “Your father will be shocked to hear this story.” Leave my father out of this…

  I sigh and soon recover, smirking right back at him. I don’t owe him an explanation. I don’t need his judgmental glare. I don’t care about him. Goran and I are consenting adults. What’s his problem? Then it hits me. “You’re jealous, aren’t you?”

  Threading his fingers through his preppy haircut, my stuck-up ex fidgets. “What?” His right hand flies through the air and lands on his heart dramatically. How did I ever find him attractive? “Are you kidding me? I’m jealous because you’re flattered by letting a stranger use your body? You should have a little more respect for yourself and your loved ones, as well as those who share interests with your family.” Such as yours? Guess what? I’ll never be a trophy wife. “Can’t you see that it sullies your family’s reputation?” I trust you to spread the word to anyone who’s willing to listen to your crap tonight.

  “You’re right.” I start in an even voice, and he straightens his posture victoriously. My eyes are locked with his, and they won’t falter. My fists are so tight that my nails are digging into my skin. “Keep telling yourself that.” I’m thankful that the music covers the words that I hiss next, after giving him a once-over full of disdain. “If it’d been you fucking a random girl’s brains out, let’s say a female DJ or one of our friends maybe, in a public park, it would’ve been so much more glorious! Because you’re such a lady killer. Because you fuck like a god. Because your dick is magic. Your rugby buddies would have applauded your exploits, don’t you think?” His mouth opens to form an O, but no sound escapes. The index finger of my right hand suddenly reaches the corner of my mouth, as if I’m debating. “Oh, wait! That did actually happen when we were…” I pause and air quote his expression. “An item.”

  And with that, I leave him in the middle of the crowded dance floor, too sexed-up to care about our little fiery exchange.

  Hypocrite!

  Changing course, the nagging thought that either Goran opened his big mouth or someone saw us makes me forget all about the desserts. I walk back his way, and the moment our eyes meet, I know that he isn’t to blame. My feet are glued to the hardwood floor, and I’m sharing a genuine smile with a guy who brought me intense pleasure, who happens to be grinning right back at me. And here I thought that we’d been discreet.

  Oh… It’s a little too late for that!

  I shrug and mouth a thank you his way. He nods as I check my Hermès watch—my beloved Cape Cod that was my thirteenth birthday present—to find that it’s almost midnight. I abhor the annoying kissing part of New Year’s Eve.

  Especially under these circumstances.

  To circumvent the hassle, I swing by the bar, down a couple of vodka shots, and swiftly make a beeline for the bathroom. At least, I’ll be left alone for a while. In truth, my fingers are twitchy. I haven’t contacted Tig today, and he’s my perfect excuse to dodge the crowd.

  Locked in a stall, I listen to a couple of girls gab as they fix their makeup. They’re spreading more rumors about me, oblivious to my presence. I recognize Solène’s voice.

  “I can’t believe that girl! She spots a hot guy that she wants and has to have him.” At least, Solène gets my point. “Once a slut, always a slut!” Frankly, I don’t see why that’d make me a slut. Then she cackles.

  Another voice that I can’t place adds, “Girls have been clinging to him all night. It’s true, though. The guy’s totally hot, but he’s a DJ… Come on, he’s a total chick magnet.” And all these years, I thought that was reserved for rock stars and actors. “Still, he’s got STD written all over his hot body.” Hello, stereotypes, again!

  “I mean, it’s obvious that he can get any girl he wants.” Right, Solène. “It’s no wonder Alie fell on her knees and opened her mouth for the guy.” Or not, but what if I had? “He’d only have to blink, and she’d open her legs for him.” Or not, but what if I had? “It’s just wrong for so many reasons!” Or not, but what if I were?

  I disregard the nasty comments.

  All I can think is: jealous much? Thanks for your concern, ladies, but I know how to take care of myself.

  Despite wanting to scream at them to shut the fuck up, I have much better things to do, so I tune them out. I hate when men judge women for the kind of behavior that they’d be proud of. I detest when men praise other men for a behavior that they would condemn from a woman. But what I loathe the most is women pointing fingers at other women and talking trash when they should stick together to pave the way forward.

  Although I don’t approve of how some of my female friends view sex, I don’t judge. Whether they use sex to obtain favors, select men based on their bank accounts, or try various tactics to keep their flowers—as they call them—intact, no matter how hypocritical it may be. Would they act differently if we didn’t live in a world ruled by men? I wonder.

  I swallow my hurt feelings, although part of me doesn’t care. Even though it pains me
to be viewed this way, I’m used to it. The story is never accurate. The guy is always viewed as a conqueror. The girl is never allowed to own her sexual appetite.

  You know what? Fuck y’all!

  Irritated, I grab my phone from my wristlet, right after peeing, and stare at the screen. Perched on the toilet seat with my panties and black opaque tights neatly rolled down to my knees, I check my social media. The incongruity of the situation doesn’t hamper me from being transported to another world. A safer world where I have complete control over my image, my actions, and my sponsors as Alie G. Yes, as an influencer, I have paid partnerships with a couple of brands as if I were a model, which is awesome; too bad my otherwise brilliant father doesn’t understand the first thing about this!

  The booming music becomes white noise. The crowded venue becomes nonexistent. The crazy party becomes less obnoxious. And over the next half hour, I respond to most of the fun, ridiculous, or witty comments while mustering the courage to begin a conversation with the man that I despise and now converse with on a daily basis.

  Per usual, I engage him first. It’s the last day of the year—or maybe the first one of another year by now?—so I was curious whether Mr. de Luca would message me if I didn’t do it myself. I got my answer. Apart from the time that Tig first reached out and PMed me, we’ve silently established that I initiate things between us on my own terms. From then on, it seems that his phone is always nearby, and consequently, so am I. Funny how our “talks” have apparently become a focal point of his life in so little time.

  Instinctively, I heave a loud sigh, wondering what I’m going to tell the guy, but my fingers have a mind of their own.

  Alie G: What are you up to?

  I’m frustrated that he doesn’t answer right away and play on my phone to kill time, resolving to shut it off if he doesn’t reply within fifteen minutes. But he does and the beginning of a smile forms at the corner of my mouth; my own reaction at his message baffles me.

  Tig: “Talking” to you as of now. Sorry I’m just seeing this now. I’m at my bestie’s. No phone at the dinner table. Escaping to the balcony for a minute!

  Alie G: I’m bored out of my skull.

  Tig: Boring dinner?

  Alie G: Massive party. Too many people and I’m not a people person.

  Tig: Odd. I thought you were an influencer.

  Alie G: Correct. People are easier to deal with online, IMHO.

  That couldn’t be truer.

  Tig: Are you saying we wouldn’t be having this convo if we were face-to-face?

  Alie G: Idk. I always tell you meaningless shit that I might not want to tell you IRL. Like my drink of choice is vodka. Like my fav singer is Alanis Morissette. Like my fav movie is Point Break.

  Next on my list is Pretty Woman. Best rom-com ever, but you’d have to torture me to confess that… and even then!

  Tig: Not meaningless, it’s called a conversation (lol). I love Point Break. The original, right?

  Alie G: Obvly! Keanu rocks. I’m a fan of all of his movies, including Bill & Ted.

  Tig: Lol on B&T.

  We discuss Keanu’s career. (Yeah, Keanu and I are on a first-name basis!) As if we’d watch any of his movies together. As if I’d end up surfing with him anywhere in the world. As if someday I’d tell him, “I caught my first tube this morning, Sir.” At some point, he decides to add something that I wasn’t expecting.

  Tig: You know that you can tell me anything, right?

  Alie G: Same, but B careful what you wish for, Tig de Luca.

  My message ends with a devilish emoticon; he truly has no idea what’s unfolding. It’s both endearing and pathetic. I bet that he thinks there’s no harm in our conversation.

  Tig: Nice to worry about me, but I’m a big boy. I’m pretty sure I can handle myself just fine.

  It’s his turn to add a little devil.

  Tig: Listen, I’m gonna have to head back inside. There’s a cute girl who’s staring me down. She’s not pleased that I left her hanging to play with my phone.

  What? He’s on a date! He has some nerve telling me this.

  Alie G: I hate the word “sorry,” but maybe I should be for bothering you on a potential date?

  Tig: You wish;-) The wonderful girl’s name is Chloe. She’s my friend’s stepdaughter;) She’s 10!

  Alie G: Really?

  Tig: Yup.

  Alie G: Entertain the young lady for now. PM me when you’re back home and ready to have an adult convo, okay? I’ll wait.

  I worry the corner of my lip and regret not having a bottle of water nearby. My throat is parched. At least, I can read and react properly, so I’m not that plastered!

  Tig: Adult convo? Isn’t that what we’ve been having?

  That’s my cue to end this conversation. Intoxicated or not, I’m not sure that I can keep up with the way that this chat is heading, and I need to stay in control.

  Alie G: Don’t twist my words! Go back to your party, I’ll get back to mine and drink some more. TTYL.

  In a rush, I hunt for my party animal of a best friend to wish her a happy new year and tell her that I’m leaving. As much as I hate to admit it, the lumpectomy and follow-up treatments have taken a toll on my stamina and overall mood. I’m more easily exasperated. I’m more easily tired. I’m more easily inebriated.

  I stop in my tracks when I enter the main room and spot her dancing with one of my cousins who I’ve held a grudge against since our teenage years. Shrugging, I abort my initial plan and head to the cloakroom.

  Bye, bye.

  Chapter Eight

  U + Ur Hand

  Aliénor

  Moments later, I’m wrapped up in my warm winter coat and stamping my right foot on the lightly snow-covered sidewalk. Good thing I swapped my stilettos for my black leather Chucks before stepping outside; I knew wearing Fuck-Me shoes would kill my feet. It’s also slippery as hell.

  Another minute passes before the driver jerks to a stop in front of the typical Haussmannian Parisian apartment building, near the Champs-Elysées. Once inside the secluded and heated space, I shoot a short message to Sophie and promptly jam my phone inside my coat pocket to refuse the temptation to check my messages or message Tig back.

  I don’t trust myself with what I might do under the influence. The drive is short, and I manage to tiptoe to my bedroom without waking anyone up. I’m relieved that both Céline and Stéphane, our butler, are sound asleep. I wouldn’t want to disturb them; I grew up with them, so they’re like family.

  I’m not sure who else is here tonight, though. I didn’t pay much attention to what either Father or Sybil said as far as their plans were concerned. She must be with her new boyfriend and friends; it’s surprising how quickly she’s recovered from her Tig obsession. If she only knew what’s going on between her tattoo artist and me! Not that I have any intention of ever divulging it. This is my own private plot that doesn’t concern her.

  My buzz hasn’t worn off, and I take care of my residual horniness. Sated, I immediately crash into a deep, drunken haze until my traitorous phone rips me from my beauty sleep in the wee hours of the morning. I’m so exhausted that, at first, I think it’s part of a dream.

  Dammit, I forgot to put it on airplane mode!

  Lying on my stomach with my face buried in the fluffy pillow, I extend my arm in the direction of the nightstand and blindly search for the darned thing. Borderline comatose, I pop one eye open to see the message before unlocking my phone.

  I hate myself when I register that my heart did a flip as I read.

  Tig: Back home.

  A wave of heat travels through my whole body; he must’ve woken me from a hot dream that I don’t quite remember. Irritated, I grumble at the text, but if I’m being completely honest, the fact that Mr. Manwhore messaged me pleases me to no end.

  Sweet of you, Tig, to disclose your whereabouts. I didn’t think you would.

  Slowly emerging from my slumber, it hits me that I slept on top of the comforter, fully d
ressed, aside from my shoes. Maybe I was tipsier than I thought… All in all, I’m thankful that, no matter how boring the party was, its location made it easy to catch a ride home.

  He will need my full attention, so I pry open my second eyelid. Sometimes, we discuss small things, others, we text for an hour straight. It’s funny that he doesn’t question the fact that I’m incommunicado during certain hours due to the time difference; for the moment, he must assume that I live in the U.S. Lately, he can’t get enough of me, which is exactly what I’ve been trying to achieve.

  Alie G: Likewise.

  I put my phone down and prop my pillow against the wall as a makeshift back rest, hurriedly peel off my clothes, and slide under the comforter. Now that I’m awake, this might take a while…

  Tig: Happy New Year.

  Alie G: You’re sweet, thanks. HNY to U 2.

  Tig: I’ve been called many things, sweet is never one of them. I should be thanking you;)

  Alie G: Anytime!

  I type the rest of my text but wait a bit before pressing send to see if he’s going to reply. When he doesn’t, I add a question:

  Alie G: So, did you wish to continue our adult convo now that nobody can look over your shoulder?