Page 21 of Omega Artist
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 notthatplastered!
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.
