Page 49 of Omega Artist
“I’m her cousin, dumbass. Now put her on the phone!”
“Cousin or not, you’d better watch your tone or I’ll hang up on you.” My jaw tightens then I taunt, “Haven’t you been listening? I just told you she’s sleeping, and I’m not waking her up to indulge your paranoid tendencies.”
“What evidence do I have that you didn’t spike her drink and take advantage of her?”
“You watch too much TV, Greer. Whether you like it or not, I’m not sending you a pic. Your cousin is sleeping peacefully on my couch. You seriously think I would be talking to you if I was a threat.”
A grumble follows. I guess that she’s debating her next words, thoughts, or action.
“Tell you what. Let’s let Sleeping Beauty get the alcohol out of her system, and I’ll have her call you whenever she recovers the ability to speak.”
“Right.”
On tiptoe, I go back to the living room to check on Alie. “Relax, I promise that I won’t do anything to ruin her virtue. You can call me Prince Charming if that makes you feel better.” Alie’s fine, although I’m no Prince, let alone Charming. I chuckle softly at the intensifying snores coming from my couch. She’s fucking hot, and I regret that I had to bring her here tonight of all nights. I’d hoped that would happen when we are both sober. Both horny. Both willing. As usual with Alie, my hand will be taking the edge off as soon as I end this call. Hence, I manage to awkwardly sit next to Alie and ask, “Any questions?”
“Actually, yes.”
“Shoot.” Before I know it, I’m stroking Alie’s short blonde hair with my fingertips. Touching her makes my clueless body buzz, and heat unfurls without warning. I suck in a breath, hoping that my need for her isn’t palpable. Otherwise, Greer will go ballistic again. My eyes linger on her body as it relaxes under my touch, stretching out a little. I can’t help but smile.
“Is Tig your real name?”
I’m so flabbergasted by this ridiculous question that I stop my TLC but don’t remove my hand from her hair. “Seriously? My name’s the one thing you’re curious about now?”
“Well, it sounds like a Tinder handle… Let’s say, borderline predator, so it doesn’t play in your favor.”
“Listen, sweetheart, my Tinder handle isInkAddict. You’re welcome to check it out. If you must know, Tig’s a nickname that my best friend gave me when we were kids, and it stuck…” Why am I confessing this? Alie’s presence in my new home is messing with my mind. Still, I don’t miss the sharp intake of Greer’s breath and hurry to say, “And no, I’m not telling you my real first name…” I pause to let her know that the subject isn’t up for discussion. “Anyway, if I’m not mistaken, our every move has been monitored, so you know where I live. Alie’s safe, but if you’re downstairs, the name on the buzzer is T. de Luca. If not, I wish you a good night, Greer.” And with that, I hang up.
I silence the phone and put it on the coffee table while leaning down to kiss her forehead. Rehashing this strange conversation in my head, I stroll to the kitchen, fill a tall glass with water, and head to the bathroom for some aspirin before coming back to the living room. My attention is drawn to Alie’s phone as I set the medicine next to the glass, then shamelessly slink into my room holding aforementioned phone.
Once I’m lying on top of the comforter, I decide that prying takes priority over undressing or turning Alie’s phone off. And I browse through her numerous pictures, getting glimpses of the life of a girl I know, or thought I knew.
It’s been a while since I’ve checked her social media or YouTube videos. What I see now is her real life, though.
There’s a lot of inspirational quotes that are a crock of bullshit if you ask me. There’s a lot of pictures of her with another girl about her age—her BFF?—smiling, laughing, partying. There’s a lot of paintings from famous painters, as well as the one I painted that got us talking. But three pictures strike me the most.
The first one is of a framed photograph, and it’s obviously her family. Her parents are all dressed up, standing on each side of five smiling little girls that are posed in front of a luxuriously decorated Christmas tree. It makes me think of a Ralph Lauren ad. Wealth. Power. Happiness. All of these and more exude from this photo. The corner of my mouth quirks up as I zoom in to see her better; she’s easy to recognize, despite her longer hair and younger self. She’s as blonde as her dad, and her older sisters are all brunettes like their mom. She was as adorable then as she is sexy now.
The second one resembles the first. A couple of years later in the same living room. A few timid smiles from the girls who come across as worried and on edge. A lot less happiness around the Christmas tree. The woman isn’t in this picture, and I can’t help but wonder if Alie’s parents are divorced.
The third one is a selfie of her beside a bulky guy dressed in scrubs. He’s holding her by one frail shoulder, and she’s wearing a hospital gown. He looks friendly and reliable. She looks terrible and empty. They look oddly happy together. Her attempt at a smile and his forced one make my heart tighten. Her hair is even shorter than it is now, and dark circles are visible under her sunken brown eyes that dully express nothing for once. I check the date and notice that it was taken last November, around the time that we started interacting. I swallow the lump that forms in my throat.
A cold shiver runs down my spine. This was a bad idea; I shouldn’t have snooped through her phone. I sneak into the living room to return her phone. Shrugging, I inwardly blame her cousin for fraying my nerves which, in turn, led to me poking my nose where it doesn’t belong. It has to be her fault, right? I’m not that kind of a guy, am I?
While brushing my teeth, I keep having flashbacks of the last picture I saw. And then I remember the first words that she wrote to me: “I fear.”
What the hell happened to Alie? What the hell turned the smiling little girl into such a sad and bold woman? What the hell has Alie buried so deep that she fears and refuses to reveal?
Death?
* * *
I hearmovement behind me while putting bread in the toaster and poaching eggs to accompany the avocado and baby spinach that have already been plated. I bet the beauty that crashed on my couch last night is awakening from her slumber. That thought alone makes my body hum with pleasure. Wondering what she remembers about last night. Wondering what she feels, waking up here. Wondering what she’s going to say first. I tilt my head and take a quick peek.
Sitting with her left leg bent under the other, Alie’s stretching her arms up in the air. The cover is discarded on the floor.
“’Morning… Smells amazing!” She flashes me the brightest smile and my foolish heart races. I guess that means she isn’t as freaked out as I feared. “Actually, it smells like the perfect Sunday brunch!”
I offer a thankful smile in return for her compliment. “Good morning, Sleeping Beauty.” I wink. “It’s a good thing it’s a Sunday and one I don’t have to work at that!” Then I apologize, getting back to the task at hand so I don’t ruin the eggs. An awkward silence follows as I recall her opinion on apologies.
