Page 37 of Omega Artist
Chapter Thirteen
Take Me Out
Tig
Hugh,an older waiter that I’ve seen a couple of times, leaves after attending to our drink orders. “I’m surprised that you didn’t order any alcohol.” Alie’s brows raise, at my statement, but I stupidly don’t take the hint. “Why not?”
Her gaze leaves the menu and pins me. “We didn’t even order any food yet. Water’s fine.”
Our conversations were so much easier online and over the phone. From the moment we met in person earlier tonight, there’s been an edginess. It’s rolling off of her in waves, but I know I’m guilty, too. I practically had to beg her to split a ride here, and it got on my nerves. As if riding from Manhattan to Brooklyn Heights in two separate cars made any sense. As if being in a secluded space with me was inconceivable. As if the trust that we’d established online vanished the second we stepped out of the bar.
Glancing at my own water, I hold my hands up in surrender and sputter, “I… I… You’re right… I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed...” I trail off and look back at her.
She shakes her head, which I misinterpret as disapproval until she utters, “Let’s start over, okay? I don’t know why I’m so worked-up… Actually, I think I do. I’m having a hard time believing that this is really happening.” She points at us alternatively. “So as much as I hate to say the words. I’m the one who should be sorry.”
“You hate to say the words?” I repeat after her, confusion replacing frustration.
“Of course!” She shrugs, her eyes absorbed by the appetizing menu that I know inside out. “Never apologize. It’s a sign of weakness,” she states ominously after returning her eyes to mine. Before I’m able to argue with her, she adds in a more cheerful voice, “Plus, you’ve been nothing but nice to me. So, I apologize. It’s just my defense mechanism when I’m tense.” So I guessed right; why are we both tense? She smiles gently as her hand brushes mine. “I had enough alcohol for one night, and I’d prefer to keep a clear head from now on.”
“Never apologize. It’s a sign of weakness. Who says things like that?”
She closes the menu and waves Hugh over, her head bouncing to the low music. “You wanna split an appetizer?” The fact that she envisions sharing something with me sends the wrong signal to my eager cock that stirs to attention. I haven’t had sex in a couple of days; no wonder my boy is raring to go. Oblivious to my pressing needs, Alie orders the baba ghanoush, asking if half of pita bread can be whole wheat, then addresses me, “Would that work for you?” I nod in agreement. “I’m not sure about the main course yet. I’ll need this charming man, a regular customer of yours, to give me some recommendations first.” She winks at me, and Hugh realizes that he’s being dismissed.
The second he leaves our side, the determined woman explains that she’s not a fan of white bread, and we happily discuss the dinner options. As requested, I offer my two cents since I dragged her ass all the way to the Heights Cafe with the promise of great food and an atmosphere to match. She just agreed with the latter and probably soon will on the former.
As soon as the food arrives, she declares that we’ll need more time before ordering the main course, tears a piece of whole wheat bread in two, and dips it in the baba ghanoush with a satisfied moan that speaks directly to my cock. I can’t help but swallow heavily when her rosy red lips part to let the thickly slathered piece of bread enter her mouth.
“Anyway, I got so wrapped up in getting food in my system that I forgot to answer your question. It’s been awhile since I drank so much, and it’s messing with my head…” She pauses and drags the other half of the bread through the dip, her eyes on me. “Don’t you want some?” I’m too hypnotized by her appreciation of the food to do anything other than watch her. Without waiting for an answer, she carries on. “So, it’s attributed to John Wayne, or at least that’s what my father claims.” She heaves a strangled noise that makes me think that the mention of her father holds a negative connotation.
I decide not to push the issue. “Which question? What are you talking about?”
“Never apologize. It’s a sign of weakness,” she repeats evenly. “My father’s a huge fan!” As if on cue, the same lost expression flashes in her big eyes.
“Are you serious right now?”
She shakes her head, a lighthearted smile brightening her previously serious face. “That’s your favorite expression, huh?” The smile turns into a quiet laugh at my expense, and I don’t even mind.
No point in denying it. “You’ve noticed!”
Her laugh continues. “You wouldn’t believe the number of things I’ve noticed about you.”
“I’m starting to get worried,” I joke in between bites. “If you tell me that you’re my number one fan, I’m out of here!” My first conversation with Claire about my mysterious online fan comes to mind, and I put on my poker face to keep the images of Stephen King’sMiseryat bay.
Her peals of laughter are infectious, and I can’t help but join in. “I actually can’t believe that, from everything I’ve said, you focused on the Wayne statement… Mmm… Interesting.”
“Wrong. I also heard ‘charming man.’ Thanks for that, by the way, although I’m not sure I deserve it.”
“Let’s see, insisting that we take the same Uber, whisking me to Brooklyn Heights, listening to my non-stop babbling all the way here… Need I say more?” Before I know it, her small pale hand covers my partially inked one. The difference strikes me. And just like that, her mundane yet intimate gesture unsettles me.
Oh, man, what am I doing?
Aside from two things, everything about this girl screams innocence. Her facial features. Her petite frame. Her conservative clothes. And here I figured she’d be slightly older than me, given her cultural references from our online chats. Lost within her expressive eyes, I’ve forgotten all sense of reality. Their color isn’t that of the dark chocolate I prefer, rather the one that kids like, but their intensity is full of maturity and raw desire that contrasts with her juvenile appearance. As for her words, they’re comparable to those we’ve exchanged. Honest. Blunt. Daring. How old can she be? The unanswered question has been replaying in my head. I’m tempted to remove my hand from her hold, but what’s the point? I’m not sure what she wants from me, and we’re both sending mixed signals here. In any case, her age is an issue, and I quiver in unease, my back so stiff that it aches.
Her eyes flicker to our joined hands. “Is this okay?” Her eyes search mine. “Or not?” Her eyes look around. As a reply, I smile at her, torn between the incongruity of the situation and the sweetness of her unexpected PDA.
That is, until it belatedly hits me.
Mike and Troy wouldn’t serve a minor. Surely, they carded her. Relax, moron!
