Page 45 of Omega Artist
“Welcome to The Cloisters. I was hoping you’d never heard of it so I could brag.” Based on her expression, I know the surprise is complete. “This whole museum was brought here piece by piece from several regions in France. It’s even nicer in the spring, but I really wanted to show it to you.”
“It’s gorgeous. Can we get in?” Her voice has regained all of its childish playfulness, the amazement unmistakable.
“Of course! Come on.” And when we arrive at the entrance, I tease her again. “So, aren’t I a man of my word?”
She spontaneously deposits a soft kiss on my flaming hot cheek.
“You are.”
Chapter Sixteen
Womanizer
Aliénor
“No, no, no!”I’m torn between my initial reluctance and my overwhelming need to prove that I’m capable of getting past previously mentioned reluctance.
“Why not?” Tig’s eyes bore into mine as he sips on his seltzer thoughtfully. His sinful lips are circling a bright pink straw, and I’m debating whether he’s purposefully drawing attention to his mouth. “You’re the one who dragged us here after all!”
“I’m going to make a fool of myself. No way. I’m notthatdrunk!”
“You’re such a chickenshit, Queen Hen!”
“You couldn’t be more wrong, King Cocky.”
“Didn’t we already prove that point on the phone a while ago? And don’t forget that we agreed that my nickname is King Cock because—”
“Oh, come on! Are we back to that? Seriously?” Once upon a time, we had this conversation. Twice upon a time, I can’t allow it. My palm slams my forehead so hard that I wince and shake it off. Damn, that’ll leave a mark. I growl before remarking, “Guys are so full of shit… or should I say full of yourselves?”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Relax, would ya? Why plural anyway? You should know by now I’m not like other guys.” His hand reaches across the small round table to touch my forearm. His playful tone contrasts with the unbearable ache that takes residence between my legs at his simple touch. I’m hot. I’m bothered. I’m conflicted. He’s the epitome of a womanizer, and I want to prove him wrong, but that first kiss…
As much as it pains me, there’s more to him than meets the eye.
“And just so you know, I’m not bragging… stating a fact is all, sweetheart.”
I straighten my posture at his ridiculous term of endearment. “Keep telling yourself that.” His hand is gone now that I put some necessary distance between the mysterious Tig de Luca and me. “Anyway, I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions. You’re right.”
His eyes grow as big as saucers. “I’m right?” His voice is clearly mocking. “Are you okay?” The answer is no, but I’m not ready to disclose the many reasons why. “I didn’t think it would be that easy to convince you.” He wiggles his eyebrows, keeping his tone light. Then, he closes the distance between us once more and strokes my arm. Again, a jolt of electricity shoots through my traitorous body. What the hell is wrong with me?
Yeah, I haven’t felt like myself lately, and I’m afraid that alcohol isn’t solely responsible. I’ve never been so affected by a guy before, and it heightens my inner conflict.
“Oh… wait, wait, wait, I found the perfect song for you.” Tig leans in closer and is about to add something when I cut him off.
“Don’t forget, we don’t get to pick our own songs.” The oddity of this place is that it’s incredibly small—not that I’ve ever set foot in a karaoke joint before, but I pictured something much bigger—and you can’t pick your song. You’re only allowed to select the genre. Then you pluck a piece of paper out of a jar and boom, you’re on stage. Also, it’s packed with locals—both Brooklynites and Asians—who seem to know the rules of the house.
A petite Asian woman wearing impressive platform shoes marches our way with a small smile on her wrinkled face. Tightly clutching the jar full of folded colored paper, she extends her hand towards the couple to my left, and the guy chooses a yellow one. Classic rock it is. Then, he bites the center of his lower lip and yells out the song title. It’s greeted with whistles and applause as he gleefully rushes to the stage. The jar is passed onto the next group that, thankfully, isn’t us… yet!
The tattoo artist shrugs and pushes the glass towards me. “Liquid courage,” he offers, then winks. As if reading my mind or anticipating my silent question, he continues. “In case you haven’t noticed, courage is my middle name.”
He still hasn’t confided in me about his obvious drinking problem—or rather former drinking problem—and this confession isn’t going to occur in the next few hours. The fact that we’re surrounded by noisy patrons might have something to do with his inability to come clean.
“And you’re saying this based on the wild kiss you stole on the subway?” I tease him, caressing his bicep over his gray sweater before I even realize it.
His taut muscles feel good under my touch. I’ll bet that the tremble that passes through him has nothing to do with the chubby forty-something businessman who’s suggestively making wide circles with his hips and stretching his already tight dark blue suit to the max while butcheringLike A Virgin.
“Among other things, yes. Didn’t it require courage?”
“Mmm... Let’s see… No, because you’d been dying to experience it for a while.”
