Omega Artist: A Hero Club Novel

by Hope Irving

“If you must know… Tig is my blind date!” I wink back at him.

  “No shit! I didn’t see that one coming.” He pushes the small tumbler across the counter. “Take the drink. Just make sure he’s positive about drinking it, okay?”

  “Got it!”

  “May the force be with you, young Padawan,” Troy adds. His comment makes me smile and reminds me that Mike carded me earlier. He’s lucky that he’s so hot or else I would have thrown a fit!

  In haste, I slap money on the counter, slide my phone into my jeans pocket, and head towards the back to follow Tig. Afraid of getting caught, I use the opposite aisle, sliding around a group of totally plastered guys. Walking slowly, I do my best to keep one eye on the shot to make sure that I don’t spill it. A second ago, he was here, and now, he’s nowhere to be seen.

  Dammit, I should have gone the other way

  I’ve reached the back wall, and he seems to have vanished into thin air. I feel like Alice in Wonderland. I’m debating whether to head back to ask Channing where he was sitting earlier—although I’m far from eager to meet his friends.

  You didn’t find me, Mr. I’d-Recognize-You-Anywhere.

  Biting the corner of my lower lip in frustration, I grab my phone from my pocket, about to text him about a potential meetup spot.

  It’s useless because he appears, lost in his thoughts, from behind a door marked Staff Only, giving me the opportunity to check him out more closely. His eyes are downcast as he locks the door behind him, then turns in the direction of the bar. Startled by my presence, he stops in his tracks. The next few seconds feel like hours.

  Our eyes meet. The intensity of his brown eyes makes them appear darker than they were a minute ago when his arm touched mine. I flush, thankful for the dim light, and gawk when my whole body goes rigid as it dawns on me that I’m facing Tig. For real. I watch him watch me, his drink still in my hand.

  That’s when I realize that Leonard Cohen has been replaced by Roberta Flack’s The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face. How fitting! I suspect that Mike’s playing a trick on us, considering my earlier confession.

  Maybe I’m imagining things…

  The most heavily tattooed man I know runs his hand through his messy hair. That mundane gesture transforms into a sexy one when he performs it.

  Come on, Aliénor, get a hold of yourself!

  On the bright side, I can tell that I’m not the only distraught one. So many emotions flash across his face that I lose count. Bewilderment. Confusion. Sadness. Excitement. Calmness. Determination…

  “Alie…” It’s a statement, not a question. “Nice to see you.” I don’t miss the emphasis that he puts on one word.

  Flustered, I sigh and collect my thoughts before replying; he patiently waits. “Likewise.” I squint at the drink. “Channing said to ask you if you really wanted this.” Saying that, I extend my arm to offer the vodka anyway, pretending to be unaware of his usual drink of choice.

  He shrugs and lets out an amused yet strangled noise. “Channing, huh?”

  It’s my turn to shrug, worrying the corner of my lip as I grasp my mistake. Silently, he takes a step towards me, entering my personal space for the second time in less than five minutes. He’s standing so close that I can’t help but wonder if he’s going to capture my mouth. He does no such thing, and I ignore the pang of disappointment that washes over me. Truth be told, I would have probably slapped him for it.

  Ignoring the drink, he leans towards my ear to murmur, “I’m glad I found you,” and engulfs me in an overtly sensual hug. We’re almost cheek-to-cheek, and his hand caresses my back, making my sweater ride up and show a sliver of skin. I twist a bit, but don’t fight him.

  The unexpected physical contact is intrusive, sweet, and disturbing. Still, I lean into it because it would be hypocritical of me to refuse it after everything that we’ve already shared online and over the phone.

  Lost in his arms, I forget the outside world for a second. I study him, and it’s safe to say that my eyes are instinctively drawn to his well-defined, full and tempting mouth. The neatly-styled scruff surrounding it only enhances its fullness that I never noticed when I stalked him online.

  I hate that Sybil’s description doesn’t match his actual looks. I hate it that he ended up winning this game and unearthing me tonight. I hate that my initial reaction to him screams lust when all I truly want is to teach him a valuable lesson. It’s all the more reason for sex to be off the table for the time being. It would be too easy to join him in the bathroom, fuck his brains out, and dump him immediately after. Additionally, it would be pointless—because I’ve put so much effort into teasing him—and taxing—because no matter what my body says, I’m well aware that I ultimately can’t bring myself to have sex with a guy that revolts me. And more importantly, it would be wrong to give him the pleasure of a cheap, quick, and dirty conquest like he’s used to. If he wants to have anything to do with me, he’ll have to work for it. He might not know it yet, but I’ll find a way to make him submit.

  Once upon a time, he could have been my type. Minus his player side. Minus his deceitful side. Minus his tattooed side… Anyhow, that’s way too many negatives. All in all, it’s a relief to know that my plan will unfold smoothly since he’s so not my type.

  The heat that previously coursed all over my body is settling between my legs, and I silently scold my traitorous body to get a grip. I’ve never had such a violent reaction to anyone, but then again, this is the first time I’ve pursued a man with such persistence. No wonder my body misread the signs. As for his, I can’t miss the evidence of his own excitement that’s pressing into my upper thigh.

  As if it hits him at the same time, he releases me from his powerful hold and takes a small step back, tearing my attention from my thoughts. “I’m sorry.” He cocks his head, giving me a thorough once-over that doesn’t fit with his words. I’m not sure what he’s apologizing for. His odd behavior? His unabashed ogling? His raging hard-on? At this very moment, I wish that I were a mind reader. “I’m just happy to see you… at last.”

  Yeah, I definitely felt your happiness. Who claimed that men don’t think about sex 24/7?

  He threads his fingers through his unruly hair again—a sexy trademark gesture that apparently betrays his nervousness—and glances at his other hand while a strange expression flashes across his face; he seems to be realizing that I still have his glass in my hand. “The drink was for you, actually.” He sounds guarded all of a sudden. “Vodka?”

  “You remembered?” I hate that it comes out as a question when I should be happy that he did. He shrugs as I down my third shot and welcome the buzz.

  He slides his hand into mine. Again, an intimate gesture that I’ve not braced myself for. I can’t say that I’m surprised; along the way, we acquired a false sense of intimacy that’s now playing out in real life. “Let’s get out of here.” He squeezes my hand lightly and offers a sheepish smile. Is he embarrassed?

  “Where to?” I nod approvingly. If his plans include nailing me in a cheap hotel, I’m out.

  He leaves me hanging there, telling me that he’ll return in a minute. Gone is the empty glass. Gone is his prior engagement. Gone is what we’ll be shortly.

  Tig leads the way out, with a beanie and coat in one hand and the other securely placed at the small of my back. This affection both irks me and pleases me. As my mind battles to decide which emotion is stronger, my stupid body has already caved, and I can’t ignore the pressure that’s slowly building between my legs.

  Please, don’t let me embarrass myself yet. There’ll be plenty of time for that later, right?

  A tight smile is all that I can manage as I take short breaths to control my inappropriate thoughts, all the while waving at oblivious Mike, who looks at us with a knowing smile. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist.” He winks.

  My stammering response comes out at the same time as Tig’s. “Loved it!”

  “Man, you’re gonna pay for that later!” A wrinkle settles between
his brows for a second before he bursts out laughing. Meanwhile, Mike makes a terrified face right out of The Actors Studio… or rather, an impression of Macaulay Culkin on the Home Alone poster.

  “Where are you taking me?” I inquire as the gentleman that he pretends to be helps me into my coat.

  “Somewhere quiet.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Take Me Out

  Tig

  Hugh, an older waiter that I’ve seen a couple of times, leaves after attending to our drink orders. “I’m surprised that you didn’t order any alcohol.” Alie’s brows raise, at my statement, but I stupidly don’t take the hint. “Why not?”

  Her gaze leaves the menu and pins me. “We didn’t even order any food yet. Water’s fine.”

  Our conversations were so much easier online and over the phone. From the moment we met in person earlier tonight, there’s been an edginess. It’s rolling off of her in waves, but I know I’m guilty, too. I practically had to beg her to split a ride here, and it got on my nerves. As if riding from Manhattan to Brooklyn Heights in two separate cars made any sense. As if being in a secluded space with me was inconceivable. As if the trust that we’d established online vanished the second we stepped out of the bar.

  Glancing at my own water, I hold my hands up in surrender and sputter, “I… I… You’re right… I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed...” I trail off and look back at her.

  She shakes her head, which I misinterpret as disapproval until she utters, “Let’s start over, okay? I don’t know why I’m so worked-up… Actually, I think I do. I’m having a hard time believing that this is really happening.” She points at us alternatively. “So as much as I hate to say the words. I’m the one who should be sorry.”

  “You hate to say the words?” I repeat after her, confusion replacing frustration.

  “Of course!” She shrugs, her eyes absorbed by the appetizing menu that I know inside out. “Never apologize. It’s a sign of weakness,” she states ominously after returning her eyes to mine. Before I’m able to argue with her, she adds in a more cheerful voice, “Plus, you’ve been nothing but nice to me. So, I apologize. It’s just my defense mechanism when I’m tense.” So I guessed right; why are we both tense? She smiles gently as her hand brushes mine. “I had enough alcohol for one night, and I’d prefer to keep a clear head from now on.”

  “Never apologize. It’s a sign of weakness. Who says things like that?”

  She closes the menu and waves Hugh over, her head bouncing to the low music. “You wanna split an appetizer?” The fact that she envisions sharing something with me sends the wrong signal to my eager cock that stirs to attention. I haven’t had sex in a couple of days; no wonder my boy is raring to go. Oblivious to my pressing needs, Alie orders the baba ghanoush, asking if half of pita bread can be whole wheat, then addresses me, “Would that work for you?” I nod in agreement. “I’m not sure about the main course yet. I’ll need this charming man, a regular customer of yours, to give me some recommendations first.” She winks at me, and Hugh realizes that he’s being dismissed.

  The second he leaves our side, the determined woman explains that she’s not a fan of white bread, and we happily discuss the dinner options. As requested, I offer my two cents since I dragged her ass all the way to the Heights Cafe with the promise of great food and an atmosphere to match. She just agreed with the latter and probably soon will on the former.

  As soon as the food arrives, she declares that we’ll need more time before ordering the main course, tears a piece of whole wheat bread in two, and dips it in the baba ghanoush with a satisfied moan that speaks directly to my cock. I can’t help but swallow heavily when her rosy red lips part to let the thickly slathered piece of bread enter her mouth.

  “Anyway, I got so wrapped up in getting food in my system that I forgot to answer your question. It’s been awhile since I drank so much, and it’s messing with my head…” She pauses and drags the other half of the bread through the dip, her eyes on me. “Don’t you want some?” I’m too hypnotized by her appreciation of the food to do anything other than watch her. Without waiting for an answer, she carries on. “So, it’s attributed to John Wayne, or at least that’s what my father claims.” She heaves a strangled noise that makes me think that the mention of her father holds a negative connotation.

  I decide not to push the issue. “Which question? What are you talking about?”

  “Never apologize. It’s a sign of weakness,” she repeats evenly. “My father’s a huge fan!” As if on cue, the same lost expression flashes in her big eyes.

  “Are you serious right now?”

  She shakes her head, a lighthearted smile brightening her previously serious face. “That’s your favorite expression, huh?” The smile turns into a quiet laugh at my expense, and I don’t even mind.

  No point in denying it. “You’ve noticed!”

  Her laugh continues. “You wouldn’t believe the number of things I’ve noticed about you.”

  “I’m starting to get worried,” I joke in between bites. “If you tell me that you’re my number one fan, I’m out of here!” My first conversation with Claire about my mysterious online fan comes to mind, and I put on my poker face to keep the images of Stephen King’s Misery at bay.

  Her peals of laughter are infectious, and I can’t help but join in. “I actually can’t believe that, from everything I’ve said, you focused on the Wayne statement… Mmm… Interesting.”

  “Wrong. I also heard ‘charming man.’ Thanks for that, by the way, although I’m not sure I deserve it.”

  “Let’s see, insisting that we take the same Uber, whisking me to Brooklyn Heights, listening to my non-stop babbling all the way here… Need I say more?” Before I know it, her small pale hand covers my partially inked one. The difference strikes me. And just like that, her mundane yet intimate gesture unsettles me.

  Oh, man, what am I doing?

  Aside from two things, everything about this girl screams innocence. Her facial features. Her petite frame. Her conservative clothes. And here I figured she’d be slightly older than me, given her cultural references from our online chats. Lost within her expressive eyes, I’ve forgotten all sense of reality. Their color isn’t that of the dark chocolate I prefer, rather the one that kids like, but their intensity is full of maturity and raw desire that contrasts with her juvenile appearance. As for her words, they’re comparable to those we’ve exchanged. Honest. Blunt. Daring. How old can she be? The unanswered question has been replaying in my head. I’m tempted to remove my hand from her hold, but what’s the point? I’m not sure what she wants from me, and we’re both sending mixed signals here. In any case, her age is an issue, and I quiver in unease, my back so stiff that it aches.

  Her eyes flicker to our joined hands. “Is this okay?” Her eyes search mine. “Or not?” Her eyes look around. As a reply, I smile at her, torn between the incongruity of the situation and the sweetness of her unexpected PDA.

  That is, until it belatedly hits me.

  Mike and Troy wouldn’t serve a minor. Surely, they carded her. Relax, moron!

  I let out a sigh of relief between gritted teeth. I’m no creeper in search of underage prey. We met online… no, no, no, she found me on my social media. We became friends… no, no, no, we became closer than that. We didn’t do anything wrong… no, no, no, her words get me hard every time I picture her while stroking my dick.

  Fuck, what have I done? Leading her on like this?

  The thought sends a chill down my spine, and I can’t shake the sick feeling. She’s much too young. I’m much too broken. We’re much too different, aren’t we?

  “I think I’m gonna get the salmon burger. What about you?” There’s a pause, and I realize I’ve been sitting in silence.

  Because, as much as I hate to admit it, she triggered my interest months ago. Because, as much as I hate to admit it, our online teasing pleases me to no end. Because, as much as I hate to admit it, I became addicted to her in no tim
e.

  Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing innocent about what I’m after as far as she’s concerned. Ever since spotting her at the bar tonight, I’ve been picturing her naked under me. Long legs. Small waist. Ample breasts... and let’s not forget her luscious heart-shaped mouth and that phenomenal ass that I couldn’t tear my eyes from while waiting for our Uber.

  “Are you okay?” Her worried eyes zoom in on mine, and I can’t stop fidgeting in my seat. Thinking about her sinful features as she caresses my hand isn’t the brightest idea.

  “Yeah, I’m sorry. I’m just having a hard time wrapping my head around the fact that we’re really here.” Pun intended. Really hard… I swallow the lump that’s lodged in my parched throat and take a gulp of sparkling water. “I think I’ll get the steak. Do you mind ordering for me? I’ll be back in a few.” With that, I break the physical contact that she established and bolt out of my chair with one thing in mind: relieving the ache. Thank God my sweater is long enough to conceal the majority of my pitiful state. I’m dying to take advantage of it with her, but currently that isn’t an option. “Well done, please. I’m… I’ll be back.”

  Two strides later, I hear her voice at my back. “Hopefully.”

  I’m being rude, but I can’t help it. I hate having to take care of myself in a public bathroom. Granted, it’s practically home. Practically because I don’t live at the Heights Cafe. It’s only the place where I used to visit twice a week with Delia. It’s only the place where I’m comfortable enough to drop all pretenses with the staff. It’s only the place where I tend to invite my hookups for coffee. As if I need to have Delia’s approval.

  Tonight is no exception. Same place. Same table. Different woman… well, girl.

  On my way back from the bathroom, I’m much calmer. I catch sight of Alie’s back from a distance and smile at my good fortune, that is, until the universe disagrees and chooses to fuck with me by sending me a sign.

  Dammit! Why now? Why here? Just why?