Omega Artist: A Hero Club Novel

by Hope Irving

  “You’re poetic in the morning, dear cousin!” She mimics me in a high-pitched voice. “I can see beyond the ink.”

  “Right… Mock me all you want.” I swallow my pride. “What I meant is that I actually noticed his paintings, rather than his ink. They kind of have a dark, gothic aura to them.”

  “Wow! Now I’m intrigued. What’s his IG handle? Maybe I know him!”

  If I provide the correct answer, she might contact him. No way.

  Fuck. Fuckity. Fuck. Fuck. How am I screwing this up again?

  “Look, I’ve gotta go. Just meet me after work, okay? I’ll tell you more then.” My voice sounds more excited than I am.

  “What? You’re going to hang up on me now? On his art? On your date? On your night?”

  “No, no, no, you need to get back to promoting your fashion designers.” She grumbles her usual complaint when I intentionally confuse PR and marketing. “Plus, I’m in a bit of a rush is all.” I pause for effect, because I’m a tease. “To be honest, there’s a guy waiting for me in my wonderful Brooklyn hotel room with a view.” Its perfect location and accommodations convinced me to extend my stay beyond Sunday night.

  “Tig?”

  “Nope. His name’s Eric and I can’t make him wait for too long now, can I?”

  “Who’s Eric?”

  I stop, knowing that I’ve thrown her off my trail. “Cross the Brooklyn Bridge, and call me when you get here. Hopefully the downpour will have subsided by then. If so, shopping; if not, a movie on demand while I fill you in on the rest.”

  “What about Eric? Are you offering a threesome? Because that’s way more appealing than the fashion show that I’m putting together.”

  “Hold on, I’m stepping into an elevator. I’ll be back in a sec.” The screen of my phone lands on my belly to muffle her voice, just in case. Thankfully for me, she behaves and I’m out of the secluded space before I get claustrophobic.

  Striding down the hallway, I ask, “You still there?” She hums in frustration. “Now… no threesome because I don’t wanna see you naked, and I intend to use up all of Eric’s stamina before he has to catch his next flight.” There’s no use in informing her that the hot flight attendant surprised me by texting me about his layover yesterday. There’s no use in informing her that the sated Eric is peacefully recovering, unaware of the fact that I ordered room service for him. There’s no use in informing her that I had a taste of his resourcefulness when I found a folded piece of paper with his digits in my jacket pocket after going through customs a couple of weeks ago… We got together for drinks during his brief layover following my arrival. As it happened, we both wanted more than was on the bar menu. As it happened, we both were on the same page. As it happened, we both enjoyed each other’s company.

  Who would have thought that Tig’s proximity would have heightened my sex drive to the point where Eric’s return couldn’t have had better timing? Eric and I reconnected over dinner last night, which led to him naked in my bed a couple of hours later. Even better than the mile-high club. I wasn’t foolish enough to ignore the potential fun. I wasn’t foolish enough to deny him. I wasn’t foolish enough to call his bluff. It’s only fair that I buy him breakfast.

  Before pressing my card to the sensor on the door, I conclude, “As for my favorite tattoo artist, he didn’t even make a pass at me after our lovely, non-date of a dinner. I can’t deny that I was both impressed and disappointed when he hugged me goodnight after making sure that I found my Uber driver. He doesn’t know that I booked a last-minute hotel room here because I was too lazy to go all the way back to Central Park West... It wasn’t my brightest move, since I don’t have spare clothes with me, but I managed. So, 7 p.m. See you then.”

  Then I hang up on her and push the door open. From the threshold, I glance at Eric, who’s slowly waking up, flashing me his sexy-as-fuck blissed-out smile. I put my phone on the nearby desk and come back to revel in the view of this man.

  “Hello, gorgeous.” He stretches his arms over his head, touching the headboard in a spot where my hands were splayed last night.

  This sudden visual intensifies my appetite for sex. Again. I wave at him, licking my lips in the raunchiest way I can muster. “Good morning, Eric.” His smile grows wider. “I didn’t want to wake you and just had breakfast downstairs. I wasn’t planning to set you free just yet, so I ordered room service for you. My treat. Complete breakfast with bacon on the side, if that’s okay. Should be here any minute now.” He nods, thankful. “It came with bacon or sausage, but I figured that I’d be the only one to come with the latter.” I wiggle my eyebrows in a vaguely suggestive manner. I’m being silly with this guy and it’s refreshing. We laugh in unison.

  “You are a man’s wet dream, Aliénor. You’re funny, you’re witty, you’re hot-as-hell, you love sex, you hate strings attached, except under certain sexy circumstances… and you feed me to boot.”

  He also praised how bossy I was when horny. He also proved how loud he could be when stimulated properly. He also commented how polite we remained nonetheless, with pleases and thank yous inserted between expletives.

  “Nah, I’m not perfect, just selfish. Breakfast is to refuel your stamina before we unabashedly screw countless times today… unless you’ve got somewhere else to be?”

  “Nope, I’m right where I need to be today.” He swiftly bursts out of bed in his glorious erect nakedness and strolls to the bathroom—to get a bathrobe, I suppose.

  I follow suit, brushing my teeth as he puts on the aforementioned piece of clothing, forgetting to close it so I have an enticing view. We’re both consenting adults, and we’re on the same page. Who needs a useless friendship when you get all the exclusive benefits, right? “You’re not too bad yourself.” My fingers slide inside the robe’s loose sleeves and graze his smooth skin.

  “Why, thank you.” He catches my wrist and pulls me into his massive frame for a kiss.

  When I unmold my lips from his, I feel the need to explain, in all seriousness, “For now though, I’m working on building a fairytale on my own terms, and having fun seeing if the shoe fits.” I’ll have to thank my former nanny, Catherine, who helped me concoct my own version of the perfect man as a child, night after night, from the fairytales that she read to me. “To this day, I can’t understand why people find it acceptable that Cinderella’s prince, whatever his name is, keeps having girls try on the shoe. I, too, claim the right to try on as many… shoes… as I see fit, until I find the right pair of Louboutins. I don’t need a man to be complete.”

  He remains in front of me, with his bathrobe open, hiding nothing of his morning wood. “I see you have expensive taste and specific requirements… I enjoy demanding women, and for what it’s worth, I’m savoring my time with you.” I thank him and return the compliment without trying to turn this into something it isn’t. “Just be careful not to over fabricate your own fairytale to a point no actual prince or regular Joe can fit in.”

  “Mmm…what do you mean?” I twist the belt of his robe.

  “Clearly, you don’t need a man to be complete; all I’m saying is that independence has its price and, as much as I agree with you, my advice would be to make sure you don’t shut people out… And for the record, I don’t mean me. Like I said, I’m perfectly happy to enjoy this moment with you.”

  We grind against each other. He’s half-naked. I’m fully clothed. We’re truly content. He kisses my forehead, closes the robe when he hears a knock on the door, and chats with the woman while I finally brush my teeth. In silence, I listen to him settle down in the living room area with his tray of food.

  “I’m just gonna take a quick shower,” I inform him, opening the bathroom door a little wider. “Enjoy your breakfast, then let’s get down to business.” I blow him an exaggerated air kiss and close the door.

  “You got it!”

  The scent of the body wash infiltrates the shower, and I get lost inside my overthinking head. Suddenly, my hand ventures south with flashback
s of last night assaulting my vision. Only they’re not of Eric and me. I freeze, diverting my adventurous fingers from their original destination and turning my face towards the warm spray. I can’t be daydreaming about a man without morals. Or daydreaming at all about a man whose skin is covered in ink. Shutting my eyes tighter, I welcome the steaming water that runs down my face and washes away Tig’s happy smile. Tig’s gorgeous ass. Tig’s mixed signals. Why am I getting horny at the mere thought of this tattooed player when I have hot and easy-going Eric waiting for me?

  I should have suggested that he join me.

  Lustful thoughts don’t invade my mind like they should, though. It’s not Eric’s strong body that baits me, but rather his last words, and I also replay my conversation with Greer.

  There’s no way I’ll ever fall for Tig. He’s so self-centered and uncaring about the women he meets that he didn’t see the resemblance to my sister; granted, we don’t really look alike, but still. Yes, I had a good time with him; that doesn’t mean that he’ll reach out. I hate to seem clingy, but I don’t have a choice. I’ll have to pursue him to initiate his fall from the pedestal upon which both men and women have placed him. He’ll be the perfect medium to express my disapproval of this patriarchal world we live in.

  No matter how famous the tattoo artist playboy once was, for both his work and reputation, he doesn’t impress me—far from it. I’ve set high—but not impossible!—standards for the man of my dreams. Eric is simply assuming things. He doesn’t know the first thing about me. I don’t shut people out. Proof is: I welcomed him into my bed.

  Now that I’m clean, I’m ready to get dirty. As I join him, he thanks me again, and it’s his turn to brush his teeth. Pacing the room while my desire for him rises, I peer through the large window and see that the weather hasn’t cleared.

  I head to the desk to pick up my phone and listen to Father’s message, giving me a piece of his mind regarding my escape and requesting that I be back in time for Sybil’s engagement party in June. I was hoping that he’d cut me some slack; good!

  I decide to post John Wayne’s quote that I discussed with Tig on my blog. When I’m done, Eric motions towards the bedroom, and a notification pops up, alerting me that I have a message from the man whose skin will never be as soft as Eric’s.

  Tig: I had a great time Sunday night. Want to catch up later this week?

  He waited three days to text me; now it’s his turn to wait. After all, we haven’t stopped communicating altogether. I mean, I comment on all his posts and he always replies to them or likes them.

  Yeah, there’s no rush.

  Instead, I turn my attention to the able, willing, and naked specimen before me while pondering how my illness has heightened my need for sex. I’m done hunting for Prince Charming for a bit. It might not be the mile-high club, but Eric’s cleared for takeoff. It’s as if it’s my only means to prove that I’m still here.

  Alive.

  Chapter Fifteen

  A Kiss to Build a Dream On

  Tig

  Five agitated nights. Four dull days. Three horny women.

  “And why is that a problem?” Soraya’s voice echoes from my desperately empty living room that’s currently filled with stacks of boxes of every size.

  What’s left of my life has been divided into them. After I sorted out what I should keep. After my friend sorted out reminders of Delia and put them into smaller ones. After we sorted out which should go to my new official apartment and which should be kept by Soraya so that I’m able to move on. At least, that’s what she’s been hammering into me ever since this place was up for grabs, courtesy of Troy, who decided that it was about time he moved into Mike’s place in Greenwich Village. That’s when Troy confessed that they were engaged to be married… Of course, Troy doesn’t have a clue that Mike’s secretly planning their wedding for next week—on Valentine’s Day.

  A condition of Mike’s proposal was that they live together first. Hence, Troy’s place had been sitting empty for months. When the couple recently informed Claire of their updated living arrangements, she notified Soraya that I had a shot at moving out. Countless fights ensued regarding my former place. My opinionated friend claimed that staying in a place where Delia’s ghost loitered around every corner wasn’t healthy. Needless to say, my other friends stood behind Soraya. It was about time for a fresh start.

  Long story short, I’m the owner of a one-bedroom/one-and-a-half bathroom in a beautiful brownstone with plenty of space to install a painting studio. Naturally, the associated responsibilities of the loan and the process of moving in have fallen to my shoulders. Soraya and I rarely see each other during the week, but unpacking has kept us busy for a large portion of this Friday afternoon, and I can’t wait for Graham and a couple of his friends to join us later. As stupid as it may seem, it’s been emotionally draining.

  “What do you mean? I don’t have a problem.” I tear the box open and abandon its contents, preferring to have this conversation face-to-face. “I mean, besides the fact that Chloe’s gonna be disappointed when she realizes that she doesn’t have her own room anymore.” In truth, it’s actually bigger than my former colorful two-bedroom rental, and the sofa bed will do. The contrast to my previous place was jarring at first.

  My new place.

  This one resembles a bachelor pad, which it was…well, still is. Light grey. Dark blue. Exposed stones… and a fireplace.

  She lets out a screech, and she jumps when she senses my presence. I apologize, instantly thinking back to my dinner with Alie. Apologies are a sign of weakness… Too late; what is she up to anyway? In any case, my friend’s question halts me from traveling down that road. “Interesting… So, the line between your brows is a figment of my imagination?”

  “Oh, you speak so well now that you live in a posh area.”

  “Says the guy who recently bought an apartment in one of the hippest areas of Brooklyn.” I moved from Brooklyn Heights to Park Slope—right near Prospect Park, aka the Central Park of Brooklyn—but that doesn’t mean that I’ve forgotten about Delia or deny what we had. It won’t stop me from visiting my wife’s grave, although I don’t want to make it a ritual on certain days. I prefer to go talk to her when the need arises. Like on Monday, after I ran into Virgil Blake at the Heights Cafe; despite the recent changes, it’s one of the only places that I continue to frequent, along with my gym. “Don’t think your tactics to sidestep the subject have gone unnoticed.”

  Busted!

  I shrug, then help her to unpack the box while explaining that the three women I most recently slept with did less to scratch the itch.

  “Give it time, Tig. You’ll know when you meet the right person.” She goes on tiptoe to kiss my stubbled cheek.

  “You know as well as I do that’s not what I’m after.” How many times do we need to have this conversation? She simply doesn’t get it. The fact that she fell for Graham so hard and fast, and that their feelings were strong enough to overcome obstacles, provides her with some certainties that I don’t have… any longer.

  She engulfs me in the sweetest hug, and as I lean into her comforting embrace, the moment is interrupted by the phone buzzing in the back pocket of my dark denim. That’ll probably be the most sensation I’ll experience this week, considering that I seem to be in a slump, woman-wise. Maybe I should pace myself instead of piling up women like I have boxes.

  “Check that out,” Soraya presses, releasing my large frame from her curvy one. My quizzical eyes bore into hers. “I felt your heart speed up.”

  “That can’t be true,” I counter in a defensive tone. “My heart died when—”

  “Enough, Tig de Luca! Keep telling yourself that, and I’ll leave you to your damn boxes… alone!” She scratches her head and shoots me a mean glare. “I get it, moving on is heartbreaking, but you owe it to Delia. She’d want you to be happy, to live. Now, stop resisting, for Christ’s sake! This place,” she makes a big production with her arms, “this is your second chan
ce. Don’t waste it.” Her hand slaps my butt. “I’ll make some lunch and give you some privacy.”

  With Soraya’s back to me, I retrieve the phone from my jeans. My dead heart is even more stupid than I initially thought it was, racing when I see a certain French girl’s name. At last. I let out a breath that I didn’t know I had been holding for a while. Relief floods my body, and my stiff shoulders relax.

  Alie G: There’s a Turner exhibition at the Met. His work made me think of you. Wanna go later today?

  I close my eyes for a second to gather my thoughts and welcome the delicious smell of grilled chicken, if I’m not mistaken.

  “Whole wheat bread and avocado okay? Maybe a salad on the side?”

  Ohhh, she’s making one of my favorite sandwiches!

  “Sure!” My mouth begins to water as a big smile forms on my face; this woman knows me all too well.

  Rereading Alie’s not so indecent proposal, I stroll in the direction of my soon-to-be fully equipped kitchen. My French admirer’s offer—the one where she said that she could have given me a hand in the restaurant’s bathroom—was much more adventurous. Besides, those were words. I have yet to witness her act on them.

  Must be the reason for my agitated nights—I keep fantasizing about the girl with an angelic face, a wet dream body, and a sexy-as-fuck voice. Must be the reason for my four dull days—my mind was otherwise occupied while running all over the place with last-minute errands for my new digs. Must be the reason for my three hookups—after a late dinner with my crew, I find myself a hookup to shake off my lingering feelings for Alie. And I did. Only I failed miserably, especially last night. The sexed-up woman was conked out next to me on her bed, and I was ready to gather my things and head out as soon as I heard her snoring lightly. The woman’s handle is DearAbby and I kept calling her Alie. The former, I ran away from after an emotionless encounter that troubled me. The latter, I keep coming back to.