Page 34 of Omega Artist
“Find me.”
Chapter Twelve
Buttons
Aliénor
With my phone in hand,he’ll guess who I am in no time, and that’s not part of the plan.
“Hanging up now.” I disconnect before he can protest and leave my phone face down on the counter to eliminate the temptation to listen to Tig while he searches for me. Seated on a high barstool to the left of the bar—a spot that I carefully selected so that Tig wouldn’t see me but I could see him—I let my eyes wander. Patrons are unwinding prior to starting a new work week, attempting to warm up by imbibing various types of alcohol, and dancing to music pouring from an ancient jukebox that’s situated in the back corner. Thanks to my newly acquired impeccable stalker tendencies, I know about his routine Sundays at this bar; I had to be prepared for the task at hand, right? The bar is busy. The bar is homey. The bar is trendy… sort of.
My coat is safely stowed away in the tiny cloakroom by the door. I was told it’s one of the perks of sitting at the counter: no need to bother with your coat. For now, I’m waiting for the shot of vodka that I ordered and admiring the bottles of liquor that are artistically displayed around the large glass pillar that sits in the center of the square counter.
I register that I’m nervously biting the inside of my cheeks to keep my impatience in check while waiting for a man that I’ve never met before. Since arriving, I’ve been flirting with a hot bartender who’s the spitting image of Channing Tatum to keep me entertained; he boasted about being the clever one who came up with the idea for the cloakroom.
“Here you go, miss. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
There are quite a few things that my naughty mind envisions, yet I keep them to myself and drain the glass. “Another one would be welcome, actually.”
He offers me a broad smile, then inquires in a supportive voice, “Liquid courage?”
“Am I that obvious?” I tap my right foot on the stool’s footrest.
“Let’s just say that I’m good at reading people.” He swivels so that his back is to me. “Must come with the job description.” All the while, he moves to the right and takes someone else’s order. Meanwhile, I have a front row seat to appreciate how perfectly his black pants hug his rear end.
Behind the counter, he stands in front of me again. “You’re right.” I move my chin and point at the glass. “Liquid courage… Blind date.” Why am I telling him this? It’s far from being a date. My intentions aren’t blinded by anything, and I’ve already seen his face, so if one of us is likely to recognize the other, it’d be me.
He serves another customer, and the moment that he faces me again with my refill in hand, he encourages me, “Don’t stress about it. I’m sure it’ll be fine.” He holds his own glass that’s full of a transparent liquid that I guess is non-alcoholic; we clink our drinks. “Cheers.”
Soon after, another cute bartender approaches us, welcomes the newcomer that I am, and addresses Channing. “Claire wondered if we wanted to meet them after work; they’re heading to Studio 45. I know you’re exhausted, but it might be fun…” The shorter guy trails off and stares at the other bartender. Nah, scratch that. His eyes linger. Thoroughly linger.
Great, I’ve been flirting with a gay guy!
I shake my head and watch Channing agree to his boyfriend’s proposal. The alcohol has done little to loosen my shoulders. So much for taking the edge off.
I’m being ridiculous. There’s no reason to stress over this.
Trapped inside my overthinking mind, I miss most of Channing’s next line that’s followed by the sound of a familiar voice. A voice that I’ve heard time and time again. A voice that’s led me to do all sorts of dirty things over the phone. A voice that belongs to a man that I’ve been scoping out since setting foot in this country over a week ago.
“What can I say? I missed you too much, baby!” Words that are audible over the music. Words that end with a bark of laughter. Words that could have been addressed to me if the circumstances were different. But it’s the last one that triggers the awareness of his closeness.
I subtly tilt my head to the right, making a point to avoid eye contact while Tig de Luca stands there, joking with a guy who’s undoubtedly his friend. His heavy winter coat is folded over his right arm, giving me the perfect view of his all-black attire and matching tattoos on his neck.
The tattoo artist is grinning and frantically scanning the room to do as he was told—find me—but that doesn’t stop him from making small talk with the couple.
The thing that strikes me the most is that his appearance doesn’t match what I’d anticipated. I’ve seen older pictures when I Googled his name last summer; there were no recent ones. I’ve seen videos on YouTube, but he never showed his face. I’ve seen his abs, but they are hidden under layers of clothes today.
He doesn’t spot me. He’s barely recognizable, based on his outdated pictures. His brown hair is wavier. His face is fuller. His body is better… so much better than the last time I saw one of his videos on the history of tattoos. If I didn’t despise everything that he represents, I could almost find him attractive. Apart from the hideous tattoos that he adores.
He doesn’t spot me. The other patrons render me invisible to him, which I’m grateful for. This is it; there’s no turning back. Tig and I are in the same room. Tig and I are feet away from each other. Tig and I are still worlds apart. At the realization that this is really happening, my brain short-circuits and my breath catches in my throat. Annoyed by my reaction to his nearness, I grunt and wipe the beads of sweat from my forehead with the sleeve of my light grey cashmere sweater. It’s a good thing I’m not wearing foundation.
He doesn’t spot me. He swore that he’d recognize me, and he doesn’t. A disappointed sigh escapes my mouth before I can stop it, only my disappointment is mixed with relief. I wouldn’t want him to have the upper hand. I need to stay at the top of my game. Seduce him. Have him fall for me. Discard him because he doesn’t matter and deserves to be treated like he treats women: carelessly.
Drying some glasses with a towel, Channing chortles at Tig’s teasing comeback while his boyfriend fills a pitcher with beer. “If it’s any indication, your red face tells me that it’s even colder than when Mike and I got here this morning.” Oh! Apparently Channing’s real name is Mike.
“The wind’s picked up. It’s fucking brutal,” Tig confirms from a distance as he ambles towards the bartenders. Spying on their exchange incognito, I embrace my newfound stalker status.
“Troy, can you bring a vodka to the booth, please?”
