Omega Artist: A Hero Club Novel

by Hope Irving

  Her head swivels as she surveys the massive crowd that’s gathered at Sybil’s fiancé’s estate in Brittany. When her eyes are back on mine, she declares, “Yeah, I made up my mind. You’re definitely Jackie. She was a badass, too, in her own way.”

  “Why, thank you, on both accounts. Jackie and Lana are both strong women, in my humble opinion.” I purse my lips before asking, “That was meant as a compliment, right?”

  My best friend’s soft giggle is the first part of her answer. Then she clarifies, “Not sure I would have dated an older man myself, though.”

  Ink. Phoenix. Dead spouse. Older man… Oblivious to the impact of her words, she keeps babbling on about every outfit, one snarky remark after another, while I suck in a breath to appease my troubled mind. I’ve kept the bittersweet memories of my American escapade well buried until today. For some reason, everything’s reminding me of the last day I spent with the man that I thought I’d intentionally tricked when I was too blind to see that he involuntarily duped me. My throat tightens and I move towards the expansive buffet. Sophie drones on and on but follows suit. I quench my sudden thirst with a Perrier while I’m uselessly checking out the catering staff; old habits die hard… It’s not as if I would ever cheat on anyone.

  Smiling at Sophie’s antics, I wonder where Raphaël went.

  “Okay, fine, I’m done being Joan.” She bows in front of me, and I applaud the end of her show when she catches me off-guard. “Holy shit! I’m not done yet. Let’s play Guess Me from Behind!”

  “What are you talking about?” I enjoy Sophie’s upbeat spirit. She’s almost as romantic as I am, which says a lot about our friendship. Chuckling, I turn around and remind myself that there’s no harm in taking a peek. “Where?”

  “Nine o’clock. Perfect ass. It seems to belong to your cousin’s plus-one. Call the cops, I’m shamelessly checking it out!” It’s not so much her words that intrigue me, rather her tone. Her excitement proves effective, and I notice that a couple of women nearby glance in the same direction. You see, Sophie and I have always been ass girls, and the lust that colors her comment increases my interest in said ass. I’m also curious as to which of my cousins landed a swoon-worthy man because, honestly, I haven’t spotted many that Sophie would approve of—in the ass department, that is.

  It takes me a moment to translate the “nine o’clock” comment, but, then again, my immediate family isn’t in the military. When I eventually do, my heart skips a beat, my knees go weak, and a wave of dizziness overtakes me.

  “Aliénor, are you okay?” Sophie’s fingers snap in front of my eyes, yanking me back to reality. “I told you!” she adds, amused, as I brazenly stare. I spy, with my little eye, a gloriously toned ass that I definitely recognize. I spy, with my little eye, twirling ink that only I know embellishes the back of his neck. I spy, with my little eye, soft waves of brown hair.

  Fuck, I long to grab his butt…

  Him… The hottest man on the planet—as well as the most considerate, the funniest, and the most in sync with me… My hand reaches back for the table for support as the ground seems to slip beneath my designer shoes. And here, I wrongly thought that there was no way I’d ever fall for the tattoo artist because, seriously, how could he ever meet the high standards I’ve set for the man of my dreams? Raphaël eerily fits the bill to perfection. We naturally clicked, and I convinced myself that this alone should be plenty. Yet, the undeniable spark between us will never be as all-consuming as it’d been with my omega artist, and my thoughts can’t help but return to Tig.

  Fuck, I long to nuzzle his collarbone…

  “You might want to close your mouth because you’re about to start catching flies. Come on…” She gestures for me to follow her, but I stay rooted in place, unable to proceed. “Let’s find out who Greer’s man is.” She snatches my wrist and starts marching, slowing every couple of steps to greet people, which lengthens the time to our destination. All the while, my legs are numb. My heart is racing. My eyes are stinging.

  “Oh my fucking God! How?” My free gloved hand flies to my gaping mouth. I would recognize this man anywhere. His hair seems longer. His frame appears broader. His ass remains spectacular. It’s covered by the most formal pair of pants that I’ve seen him wear, aside from his attire at Mike’s wedding. I also regret that his beautiful tats are concealed under his suit jacket. “How is this possible?” My low, strangled voice comes out needy, even to me.

  Sophie stops in her tracks and pivots to face me. “What?”

  “Tig’s here.”

  “What the hell is your Tig doing here?” After she read my post, I had to come clean and spill the beans. “With Greer, nonetheless!” Most of it, meaning the sex part, since I’m still struggling with my conflicted feelings towards him.

  My feet weigh tons, so I don’t budge. “My point exactly.” My voice hitches.

  I’m struggling to process what’s going on. They can’t seriously be together together, right? She wouldn’t do that to me… And what about Sybil? What a clusterfuck! I look around in a feeble attempt to get my bearings and regroup. My stupid heart betrays me by thumping so hard I might combust. My maddening mind teeters between reasoning and derailing. My traitorous body chose its side from the start, leaving me eager and panting.

  Fuck, I long to lick his ink…

  Did I make a mistake by sticking to my original plan, like Father insinuated in his comment on my post? Whenever I remember that my overbearing father read my confession, my cheeks grow hot. Today is no exception. I heave a pained sigh. Did I have to dump my omega artist so that I could write about my mission on my blog? Would I have been able to make a point with a different outcome, as Father suggested? How can I stubbornly disregard how this guy made me feel the whole time? All in the name of a blog post. A post that prompted more comments than I can count, mostly from women. Some disparaging ones. More encouraging ones. Fewer praising ones. None from Tig, like I’d ridiculously hoped. On the other end, I doubt that he ever saw it anyway. I promptly blocked him from my social media once I ran from him.

  I finally manage to put on a blank face I’ve perfected over the years. I hide the inner turmoil that’s been haunting me since I left a note on a pillow in the Hamptons. Yet one emotion overrides them all: I’m utterly jealous. I swallow the lump that’s taken residence in my throat.

  Yes, Sophie was right, I had impossible standards. I exhausted myself trying to unearth the perfect guy that matched them. I fancied myself independent and yet limited myself in my search for my Holy Grail of a man. Believing that I was free to make a choice. Overlooking the fact that I was subconsciously trying to both provoke and appease Father. Denying my true needs in the name of a self-appointed crusade to right the wrongs of this patriarchal world. I threw everything away because I had convinced myself that it had to be this way. My blog post was online. My omega artist was lost. My love life was nonexistent. So, Father offered me a way out. Raphaël was a good person who belonged in my world. Inviting him today made sense. He was an easier fit that made me settle for less. Life’s too short, right? And we’ve only got one.

  The three of us are in this situation because of me. Raphaël doesn’t deserve to be a rebound guy. I don’t deserve to be ruled by my fears. Tig doesn’t deserve anything but respect, fairness, and equity. We deserve to be happy.

  And to think that I blamed Tig for not staying true to his word when I was the one who blindly strayed. Same goes for my feelings. We both claimed that we were strictly casual, but at least, he had the guts to confront his demons. I didn’t... up until now.

  OMG, I’m in love with Tig de Luca.

  What I witness next is almost more confusing than this revelation. Tig is hugging Sybil as if there was no history between them. As if they’d seen each other yesterday. As if she invited him to her engagement party.

  From a distance, I watch Tig release my sister from his embrace. He and Greer have finished talking to the happy couple, and that’s when my sister’s eyes
meet mine. He follows her gaze and shoots me a glance.

  Within a few strides, he stands in front of me. Longing. Wanting. Needing. His intense stare undresses me, and I’m well aware that he’s taking in every inch of my currently clothed skin.

  My fingers can’t resist any longer, caressing his eyebrow where a second barbell’s joined the one I knew of. This man is my favorite work of art. He shivers, which pleases me to no end and puts a happy smile on my reddening face.

  He removes my sunglasses from my face, grazing my skin. Igniting my desire. Fueling my surrender. I shiver, which pleases him to no end, and the cocky smirk on his face is proof enough.

  His hungry brown eyes capture mine and the rest of the world drops away. Sybil’s been right all along. I’m young and impulsive. Even Father grasped where I belong before I did.

  “Why were we apart so long?” Our bodies aren’t touching because restraint is in order, but the craving radiating from us is nearly unbearable.

  “Too long.”

  “I hurt you.” My sheepish admittance makes him wince, which saddens me. “I hurt you, and I shouldn’t have. You don’t deserve it.”

  “We don’t deserve it,” he counters, his eyes laced with sorrow and hunger.

  “True.” I swallow my pride with the lump in my suddenly dry throat. “You know…” I start, “I was in love with you long before I met you in person.”

  “I know.” His voice is composed, but his emotions are unmistakable.

  “I’m so stubborn…” My brows knit and I worry the corner of my lower lip. “So stubborn..”

  “Your stubbornness gives you your drive. I love that about you, amongst other things! As for me, well… I’m practically perfect in every way.”

  We chuckle at that.

  “I love you, Tig de Luca… so fucking much.”

  “Ditto, Aliénor Godefroy de Briard.” With these words, his palms cup either side of my face. Seconds later, his mouth crashes into mine for a searing kiss.

  When my tongue meets his and I’m introduced to another new piercing, I grin into the kiss. This tiny detail turns me on beyond belief, and I can’t wait for him to tease my nether region with his new toy. For now, it sends heat from my head down to my toes, making me lose all sense of reality. Time stops as our tongues make love for what seems like forever.

  I can’t run away from this man ever again. I can’t hide from my feelings for him anymore. I can’t stand John Wayne any longer. So, there’s just one thing to say, though it pains me to break this welcome back kiss.

  “I’m sorry.”

  New Soul

  EPILOGUE

  Aliénor

  Traditions are like old habits. They die hard. Why challenging Father’s decision didn’t cross my rebel mind is beyond me. He was expecting his five daughters to attend our monthly family reunion, aka Sunday brunch, without our men, and without fail.

  “It’s good to see you smile, Aliénor.”

  I make a point of ignoring Blanche’s comment—one that I’ve heard from scores of others ever since Tig’s hot lips regretfully parted from mine so that we could come up for air. In the middle of Sybil’s soon-to-be in-laws’ luxurious backyard. In the middle of my crushed logic and renewed certainty. In the middle of a crowd of family, friends, and strangers.

  “Can I get a refill, please?” I hand my empty mug to Sybil, who obliges while Céline serves the second part of my healthy breakfast: a bowl packed with orange slices and fresh raspberries. I thank her and counter Blanche, “For the record, I did smile all the time!” Céline shakes her head, obviously agreeing with my family. I cross my arms and pout, making everyone laugh.

  “You’re beaming and have faraway eyes. You’re sooo into him. It’s useless to deny it.” Blanche giggles. “So, I call bullshit, sister!”

  “Language,” Father scolds.

  I mutter incoherent words, nibble on some fruit, and reluctantly agree as my face heats in embarrassment. “I still can’t get over all the plotting, Sybil.”

  “Well, you know me. I had to do something for my young and impulsive sister who was too stubborn to acknowledge that she went too far.”

  Alright, alright, I get it!

  Once Father read my post and learned that Sybil reached out to Tig, he had to wrap his head around the fact that I went after my oldest sister’s former hookup. He claims that he understands. He claims that it’s a modern fairytale. He claims that he approves of my omega artist. That remains to be put to the test in real life, though.

  So far, their only interaction was a formal introduction after our scorching kiss sparked whispers, applause, and whistles. And to think that I tried to keep from stealing the spotlight from Sybil. Another one of my epic failures that I’m proud to fully embrace. Owning my mistakes, I hunted down Raphaël to come clean; thankfully, he’d missed the action.

  Ironically, my sister reached Tig to scheme our unlikely reunion via the hookup app.

  Convincing him to take the trip was a piece of engagement cake, Sybil confessed, after Troy and Soraya talked some sense into him. Father obviously approved of her grand scheme. My man asserts that he didn’t need the extra push because, you see, he’s “older, wiser, and in love with his alpha girl.” At least that’s what he’s repeated since we dashed to the nearest bathroom to make up for lost time. Trust me, we did our best to be as discreet as possible, but he quickly covered my sailor mouth when expletives threatened to escape as he restlessly pounded into me and I got reacquainted with my beloved Albert.

  “You should have seen your face when you realized Tig was there…” Sybil taunts, which dumbfounds me. She’s been nothing but quietly supportive when it comes to my relationship with her former fling.

  “Zip it,” I warn, tired of being the focus of yet another Sunday.

  “Langua—”

  A sudden din interrupts Father, and I’m grateful for the reprieve. Someone’s honking directly below our cracked windows, but our neighborhood is usually peaceful. Someone’s yelling directly below our cracked windows, but the loud voice remains indistinct. Someone’s blasting opera music directly below our cracked windows, but it’s too muffled to be recognizable.

  Without apologizing for leaving the table, all the girls sprint in the direction of the disturbance that reached the fourth floor. As Sybil flings open the window, the classical music floats inside and everyone goes silent.

  Wait a minute, I know this song.

  Voi Che Sapete from The Marriage of Figaro. My favorite! I’m the first one to step on the balcony, gape over the railing, and indulge in the view. My less than romantic heart somersaults.

  Tig’s gloriously hot upper body is popping through the sunroof of a Mini-Cooper; he must be standing on the backseat of Sybil’s precious new car. I rack my brain to remember if we texted or discussed operas and wonder who’s to thank: Greer, Sybil or Father?

  The lucky cat that we won at the karaoke joint months ago is held triumphantly over Tig’s head, his stare burning into mine. I can’t believe that he traveled with our cat!

  Despite the oddity of the situation, this song is incredibly fitting for the rollercoaster of emotions that Tig evokes in me. At once, the opera ceases as a guy donning a chauffeur hat emerges from the car. I chuckle when he looks up and I spot Sybil’s fiancé.

  I feel the weight of my sisters’ stares, but I ignore them as I wave at the men.

  “Aliénor, Princess Aliénor, come down.” Tig’s velvety voice is booming now.

  Oh, shit! This can’t be happening, right?

  I can’t believe that he’s recreating the final scene from my all-time number-one rom-com Pretty Woman. The chauffeur. The open sunroof. The opera music…

  How did he know? The anti-romantic that I am never would have confessed my obsession for this classic that all of us watched with Mother!

  I glance at Sybil, who shrugs. Then, I catch Father’s shit-eating grin. They plotted more than I imagined, though some details differ!

  Yup, it’s
too bad that drop-down fire escape ladders aren’t a thing in France, but he does jump to the car roof and yell that he’s coming up—no doubt with the assistance of the regular stairs.

  The music returns. My sisters go into hysterics, and I can’t hear myself think with their raucous rounds of applause.

  Dumbstruck, it takes me a moment to get my bearings and saunter to the front door, where Father is already shaking Tig’s hand, then pulls him into a hug, welcoming the new addition to the family. This is so not French. This is so surreal. This is so unlike my father.

  “Occasionally, timeless institutions, ancient rules, and noble missions are meant to be bent to ensure the pursuit of happiness.”

  As Father releases Tig from his arms, the only sound in the apartment is my ragged gasps and the opera still drifting up from the street.

  Without further ado, Tig strides to meet me, the cat cradled in one arm. I let out the breath I’ve been holding since he appeared downstairs. Unabashed, he approaches—near enough to dizzy me with his intoxicating scent but far enough to remain out of reach, which drives me insane. Is this a dream?

  I run my tongue across my lips and watch him expectantly.

  “So, what happened after…” he begins, improvising the finale. “She catches the lucky cat that he throws her way after climbing up the tower and rescues him.”

  “He rescues her right back.”

  With my statement, he takes another step toward me and I wrongly believe that he’s going to pull me in for a kiss. Instead, he asks, “Who wants to catch it?” as he sends the cat flying my way, concluding, “And marry me?”

  As I extend my arms to catch the lucky cat, my eyes widen at the enticing thought and unexpected proposal. As it turns out, I don’t have impossible standards. They’re simply no longer applicable. Tig de Luca encompasses everything that makes me tick in his own unique way. He respects my boundaries. He brings out the best in me. He loves me unconditionally. And let’s not forget our astonishing compatibility—on so many levels—that defies common sense. With a shit-eating grin plastered on my flushed face, I tuck the animal snugly, and reply short-breathed,