Omega Artist: A Hero Club Novel

by Hope Irving

Soraya’s work wife, Shondra, tagged along with her fiancé, Lamar; the curvy African American woman is as short as her man is tall and muscular. They’re a hoot, but the seating arrangements and the fact that I’m an introvert don’t help matters. So, I’m sticking to chatting with Chloe instead of mingling with the other guests, Luke, Graham’s new business partner, and Diane, his wife and high school sweetheart.

  As for Lorenzo, Soraya’s amazing toddler son, he’s fast asleep, and we’re all enjoying an overall pleasant evening.

  Oysters. Champagne. New Year’s Eve hors d’oeuvres.

  Either way, I’m grateful to share this dinner with young Chloe; she’s the most adorable girl on the planet. Although I wouldn’t admit it aloud to Graham, I’m amazed that Genevieve succeeded in raising such a wonderful teacup-sized human. As much as I despise the woman, according to Graham, she’s always been a wonderful mother to his daughter.

  Even though I’m happy to be here, I can’t shake the impression that I don’t belong. Once Graham and I straightened a couple of things out, I realized that his initial cocky attitude was partially fueled by his own insecurities. We’re not the best of friends, but I respect him a whole lot, in part because he doesn’t try to bring me down, unlike his ex. I guess his daughter takes after him, and currently, she’s acting as my protector, making sure I’m okay.

  Her little hand reaches for mine and gives it a light, reassuring squeeze. I glance around at the guests who are too busy to notice us and kiss the top of Chloe’s hand. Soraya thanks her stepdaughter, and I smile at my best friend, who was indeed paying attention.

  Thanks to Chloe’s positive vibes, my tense shoulders relax, and I ask her about her latest read.

  “The story’s great, but Edward bothers me. He’s such a stalker, Tig, and I would hate my boyfriend watching me sleep. It’s so… wrong!”

  “And your dad is okay with the fact that you know what a stalker is?”

  That draws Graham’s attention.

  “Who’s Edward? Is he a friend from school, Sugar Cookie?”

  “Dad, we’re talking about Twilight. Edward’s a vampire, and I doubt you’d allow me to be friends with a 109-year-old vampire!” Her crystal giggle warms the entire room, and her father tries to navigate a conversation that he’s unfamiliar with. “I prefer stories where the heroine is her own person, you know? Bella needs Edward, and I’m happy for her, but that’s just not me.” God, I love this kid, who’s not quite a kid anymore.

  “I guess vampires aren’t your jam?”

  “Touché.” His eyes meet mine and he sits up straighter. “My daughter’s always had a vivid imagination. She’s lucky to have you to discuss things I’m totally ignorant about.” She winks at me in response to her father’s words. I’m proud of how well-read she is, from Peter Pan to The Chronicles of Narnia. Lately, she told me that she’s taken an interest in vampires and all things manga, which she’s hidden from her mom. Her secret’s safe with me.

  Chloe and I grew closer once I started to get my life back together and began babysitting her and Lorenzo from time to time. The idea was to give Soraya and Graham some alone time. Obviously, they can afford a sitter, but I felt the need to make amends for all of the trouble that I caused them.

  “Don’t forget to show me your newest drawing, Tig.” Chloe nudges me as a reminder.

  “Sure thing. It’s on my right ankle.” She claps her hands with excitement. I’m well aware that she finds the drawings on my skin to be overly fascinating… I’ll laugh my ass off if her first boyfriend’s style is more like mine than Graham’s; the latter would probably be cool with that, but Genevieve would shit a brick!

  “Yeah, Tig’s body is a work of art,” Soraya proclaims and, much to Genevieve’s disgust—based on her wrinkled nose—tilts her head to plant a peck on my cheek. Then, she extends her arm to her husband and teases him, “I love the tattoo that Tig gave you, Stuck-Up Suit!” An existing tat that I adjusted to match the name of the woman that Graham loved and eventually married. We all burst out laughing at the nickname, one that she occasionally uses, for old times’ sake. I admire Soraya’s blue hair tips and smile. She never fails to coordinate them with her mood.

  With that, we move on to the main course—homemade meatloaf, green beans, and mashed potatoes—which is Chloe’s favorite grown-up meal.

  “So, tell me, how’d you settle on volleyball?”

  I answer Keaton’s question on autopilot. “It’s kind of a low-profile sport.” Will Genevieve stop scowling every time I open my mouth already? I shake my head in a feeble attempt to chase away her negative energy. “It’s challenging, but the atmosphere of my club is really relaxed. We play to win but don’t stress about it.”

  Soon enough, I tune him out, because my mind is otherwise occupied.

  First, because Chloe’s company is much more entertaining and fun.

  Second, because I haven’t heard back from the Swedish banker that I’m supposed to meet at her hotel after I’m done here; the year to come will start off with more than one type of fireworks… that is, if she gets back to me like she said she would.

  Third, because I’m a breath away from texting the one who I have yet to hear from today. The one who’s keeping me waiting. The one who’s officially become my daily virtual fix.

  What transpired between me and my mysterious fan the other night was something that I haven’t experienced before, or at least not in a very long time, and certainly not as a grown-ass man. I wish I could confess my harmless crime to someone… Okay, not like something you’d see on the news, but still. I wish I could say that I was drunk and blame Claire for pointing out Alie G’s online interactions, but that would be a blatant lie. Since that evening, our online relationship has built slowly, driven by random questions and clipped answers.

  Her words are witty. Her interests match mine. Her handle is Alie G., but I call her Alie. Yeah, yeah, I’m already on a first-name basis with a girl that I’ve never seen in my life. That’s the beauty of social media, right? Regardless, I can’t wrap my head around the fact that I don’t know the first thing about her; despite some thorough research, I’ve only gathered meager info, and nothing useful at that. Anyway, I don’t give a flying fuck about it. She’s not an anonymous hookup, and I’m definitely not interested in her in that way.

  Over the last year, I’ve chatted up a shit ton of women. I’ve nailed a shit ton of women. I’ve never been involved with any of these women like I am with Alie. I don’t know how she and I fell into the habit of interacting every day. I don’t know where she lives. I don’t know what she looks like. Hell, she might be a dude living in his mom’s basement, but she assured me that she was legal. Although I’ve never seen her, considering her taste in music and maturity, I don’t doubt it.

  In a short period of time, faceless—actually, filtered is more accurate—Alie and her long blonde hair became a comforting presence, and I think that I represent the same to her. Somehow, it’s easier to confide in a stranger. Albeit, she’s not really a stranger anymore, is she? And the confessions are personal, but in no way intimate, which apparently works for both of us. The good thing is that it’s cheaper than a shrink. The bad thing is that it’s gotten to a point where I’m looking forward to these moments. Every. Single. Day. What used to be a couple of personal messages once a day evolved into meaningful conversations at random moments, and I’m perfectly aware that it makes me… happier, maybe?

  No need to read between the lines; I haven’t turned into a pussy-whipped shadow of myself, getting all emotional over one woman. I don’t do relationships or romance or whatever you want to call it. I’m still the same guy. Emotionless, often. Guarded, mostly. Sex-driven, always… but burying myself in a woman’s body provides a short and intense reprieve from my sad life. Alie brings me a long-lasting feeling of peace, if that makes sense.

  She’s mostly curious and eager to learn about the inspiration for my art, whether it’s paintings or tattoos. I’m mostly okay and eager to repl
y since I can’t deny that her interest in my art flatters me and her texts amuse me. We’re mostly eager and curious to hear more about a total stranger. A stranger who divulged her fandom for Alanis Morissette, Suzanne Vega, and R.E.M., which made me picture her as older than me.

  No matter how comfortable I am texting her, I’m nowhere near ready to get into anything about my late wife or the grandmother who raised me after my dad left us for one of his college students and my mother followed suit. Talk about a dysfunctional family!

  Once again, I get trapped inside my own head, overthinking my peculiar relationship with this empathetic stranger, and I’m startled when I hear my phone chime. It’s on the nearby coffee table with the other phones.

  My heart somersaults, and I excuse myself from the table. Soraya smiles, discreetly granting permission to take a moment to check my phone before dessert is served.

  I mouth that I’ll be right back, head for the balcony for privacy, and snatch my phone on the way. Once outside, I wish that I’d grabbed my coat, too, as I freeze my ass off in the frigid New York winter air. This better be good.

  Mmm… My hookup is confirmed, but I’m disappointed that Alie hasn’t reached out to me.

  When I’m back in my seat and my phone is back where it belongs, I force myself to listen to the other guys converse about finance and fine arts and briefly interact with someone other than Chloe for a bit. I’m getting good at pretending that I don’t mind being the only one on their own tonight.

  I notice that Chloe’s smile has disappeared, she’s worrying her lower lip, and she’s quieter, now that she’s surrounded by boring conversations. My attention returns to her. Vamps. Fairy creatures. Neverland.

  My phone beeps again shortly after. My hopes surge within seconds. My body heat flares, which is unmistakable on my face. Fuck!

  “What?” I inquire in the most neutral tone I can manage, shifting in my seat and not fooling Soraya for a second.

  “Nothing…” Soraya trails off, a knowing smile on her pretty face.

  Next, I catch Graham watching me with a satisfied smile on his smug face. A face that I would have loved to punch, once upon a time. “Just go check it, Tig,” Graham offers, elbowing his wife. “You’ve been antsy for thirty minutes. I can tell you’re waiting for… something… or someone… We understand the circumstances.” It’s subtle, but it’s there. I’m by myself. I’m surrounded by couples. I’m a widower. “Please try to be quick. Chloe is waiting for the rest of your story here.” His tone is more playful than anything.

  “That’s okay, Daddy.” The wonderful Chloe pats her dad’s forearm over his heavy cotton dress shirt. New Year’s Eve Graham is even more dapper than business formal Graham. Damn, the man can really rock a three-piece suit. “I enjoy seeing Tig’s head in the clouds. It reminds me of when we were little.” Yeah, back when I had my life all figured out and my happy future well-planned. “And when he does, he curses less!”

  The three of us bark out a laugh, attracting attention for a second. Soraya joins us, and I high-five her witty daughter, despite the fact that her words cleave my broken heart in two. Soraya lost her best friend. I lost my wife. We were lost for a while… especially me. Chloe is so on point… How I used to be…

  My skin prickles at the thought of our loss, but that’s not what troubles me most. The lump that forms in my throat has me sputtering as I gulp another tall glass of sparkling water to help bury my sudden discomfort. Somehow, the fact that Delia’s ghost lingers while I’m anticipating Alie’s next message feels wrong. My heart flutters when I register the reason why: it feels wrong in a way I didn’t expect… like I’m betraying Alie.

  Why do I feel this way? This woman doesn’t hold a candle to my wife. I scold myself inwardly; it’s not a competition anyway.

  At once, my mind reasons.

  Late wife.

  Chapter Seven

  Virtual Insanity

  Aliénor

  “Dammit, Sophie! I never should’ve listened to you.”

  “Oh, pleeease! You’re the only bored one here. Look around you, everyone’s having fun!” Her slurred words tell me that she’s slightly intoxicated. As for me, I’m on my way, one drink at a time.

  “I beg to differ. These people are eager to judge me. They’re not my friends. You’re my one true friend. Nobody else bothered to pay me a visit when I was in the hospital struggling with cancer.”

  “Aliénor, relax. Stop being so dramatic. This is the best New Year’s Eve party in Paris. Trust me on that, so enough of your pity party. Carpe diem!” Sensing my hesitation, my friend snatches my wrist over the fitted sleeve of my little black dress and shakes it. “Come on, you’re better than this,” she admonishes. “This is totally unlike you.”

  I hate that she’s right. “Fine,” I grumble, happy to be tucked in the most secluded corner of this giant place so that we can have this conversation without needing to shout over the thrum of the dance music.

  “You fought that fucking cancer, and you will win the battle, I promise you.” Right! “So, be proud and enjoy life for a change. You turned twenty-one a couple of weeks ago and didn’t even celebrate. It’s time to paaaaarty!”

  Sophie hurries towards the expansive buffet on the other side of the room, and I follow suit. I’m starving; my recent health issues upended my appetite, and my weight loss isn’t welcome this time. I pack my plate with cold cuts, raw veggies, mixed salad, and salmon to start with and dig in while my foot taps along to the beat of the music. The food, the music, and the DJ are all decent.

  “Oh, my God!” A screeching voice assaults my ears, attracting my attention that was centered on eye-fucking said DJ. “What happened to your beautiful hair?”

  “Hello, Solène.” I couldn’t sound more bored if I’d tried. I pat myself on the back for that. “Nice to see you, too.” My classmate winces when she realizes that she’s being rude. “It’s still there, only shorter.” Matter-of-fact is the best approach. I have no intention of informing Gossip Girl that I donated my beloved blonde mane once I learned that the tumor had been removed successfully. I have no intention of telling anyone that I cried myself to sleep for weeks after being diagnosed. I have no intention of sharing how much I actually prefer my pixie haircut, since it brings out my chocolate eyes and makes me look like a badass. Thankfully, she gets the hint and meanders away.

  I don’t usually tag along to these events. There are too many people. There is too much music. There is too much excess.

  Everywhere I look, I see people my age drinking to excess, hooking up in plain sight, or doing heavy drugs. Against the far left wall, I notice a group playing beer pong and snigger; since when did this cross the Atlantic and land at one of the poshest parties of the year? To each their own; I’m just appalled that the very same people judge yours truly when not under the influence.

  Damn, I’m so horny!

  Apparently, I have only four moods lately: hungry, tired, angry, and horny.

  Sophie and I drift towards a few of our closest friends from high school. Standing in a semi-circle by the DJ’s setup, each clasps a glass of champagne or stronger alcohol. From this angle, and with most of my friends showing with their backs to the DJ, I’m free to ogle the guy without moving an inch.

  Rubbing my thighs to tame the heat that’s taken residence between my legs, my intense stare stays on him as he entertains the vast crowd. Dressed in a fitted short-sleeved black shirt that exhibits his toned biceps and broad shoulders, he’s sporting a buzz cut and a five-o’clock shadow. His skilled fingers move across his random electronics, tongue haphazardly licking his lower lip. That’ll do.

  Oblivious to me for the moment, he circles through a wide variety of musical genres to please everyone, from recent French classics to famous electro songs. Even the youngest guests sing along with songs that were released before they were born; it’s impressive how music can bring people together.

  My friends are lost in discussions about video games and world econom
ics, which I don’t give a shit about. Although everyone’s entitled to an opinion, I doubt that any of us is sufficiently sober to have a serious conversation right now; it’s a good thing that the volume of the music covers words that I don’t care for. I play nice, mumble indications of agreement here and there, and, a little later, watch Sophie dance.

  We all run in the same circles thanks to our aristocratic status and lineage; there’s no way to prevent crossing paths with the same old people, sometimes. The same friendly people, sometimes. The same superficial people, sometimes. It all depends on the circumstances. In my experience, we are obliged to fall in line with what’s expected.

  My personal motto is to respect myself first and foremost. It’s truer now that I’ve had a taste of how short life can be. I intend to live my life to the fullest because you only get one shot. But like Mae West said, “If you do it right, once is enough.”

  “Guys, I’ll be right back.” I glimpse at my empty plate as an explanation and stride to the bar to discard it. On my way back to my friends, I sense the weight of a stare on me.

  Bingo! It took you long enough!

  I give him a brief nod and smile at him flirtatiously.

  Mr. DJ keeps busy and remains professional. I keep busy listening to my friends. We keep busy eye-fucking each other as discreetly as possible. We both know where this is leading, and sooner or later, I wander over to pretend to ask for a song.

  Damn, I need to scratch that itch.

  “Hey, nice to meet you. I’m Alie,” I greet him in French. I have no intention of making this something it’s not, yet I don’t see a point in lying about my name. Only he doesn’t need my full name, since there’s no point to that either. He nods, his striking blue eyes flickering over me, then returning to his track before settling on my mouth.

  “Hi. Goran.” He grins, his glance going back and forth between me and his table. Now that I pay closer attention, he kind of looks like a young Goran Visnjic. That’ll do.