Page 50 of Omega Artist
Damn you, John Wayne and your stupid quotes!
Thankfully, she doesn’t comment on it and lets me explain that whenever Drake, one of the other tattoo artists, isn’t available, I do walk-ins on Sunday mornings and that sometimes these spots are reserved by pro bono customers.
I observe her to gauge her reaction. Some people can’t fathom why those who my late wife called survivors—victims of violence, inflicted self-harm or devastating scars or cancer—would turn to tattoos as a part of their healing process.
Her cheeks redden and she fidgets uncomfortably. Not the reaction I was anticipating, and I regret mentioning it.
Annoyed, I return my focus to breakfast and hear her deep voice behind me say, “I had no idea you did pro bono work.” Her sexy voice gets me every time, especially when I’m not distracted by her gorgeous face. I sigh at the realization that she’s sitting in my living room as we speak. She’s slept in my living room. She’s waiting for food in my living room. My body floods with warmth, and I shiver with a smile on my face. I don’t mind if she sees it, but she doesn’t. Instead, she stutters, “I think it’s great that your… art… helps to make people… live… happier in their own skin, no matter how marred it is.”
Pride. Relief. Joy. I acknowledge that I don’t tend to broadcast it because I don’t want people to think I’m doing it to promote my business; I believe in word-of-mouth. The air grows heavy as we discuss what some endure in life, and I unsubtly switch to a lighter topic to stop from ruining the moment.
I grab the whole wheat bread from the toaster and arrange some avocado on each slice. “Complimenting my cooking skills is your way of telling me you’re hungry, right?” I joke with my back to her, raising my voice so that she’ll hear me over the racket I’m making.
A moment later, she appears at my side. “You bet! I guess we can both agree that I had way too much to drink. The house cocktail was a traitor, but it’s the sake that definitely sent me overboard.” Again, I glance her way as she shrugs.
“How do you feel?”
“Fine, thanks to you. Aspirin did the trick when I woke up some time during the night. Same with the water.” She nods, as if to herself. “Need a hand?”
“Nah, not for this.” I realize the innuendo as soon as it leaves my mouth, but I can’t take it back. Feigning innocence, I make a point of keeping my attention locked on the perfectly cooked eggs that slide onto the toast without resistance. “But thanks. And…voilà!” I deposit the full plates on the place mats situated on the small but comfortable dining area on the right side of the kitchen island. “Actually, if you could grab the mugs from that upper cabinet, that would be great.” I stop, covering my mouth with my hand as I belatedly grasp that I fixed coffee without bothering to ask what she wanted. “I went ahead and started breakfast so it would be ready by the time you woke up, and I didn’t even—”
She waves her hand to shush me. “It’s perfect.”
“It’s no croissant, but I’m not much of a croissant or donut eater, for that matter. I’m new to the neighborhood and don’t even know where they sell those around here.”
“Me neither. Like I said, it’s perfect. Trust me, I don’t sugarcoat.” Her small black-manicured hand covers mine. “It’s like you read my mind for the breakfast menu; I have to watch what I eat.”
My quizzical eyes search hers. She can’t seriously be worried about her appearance. Although her body is well-defined, she could certainly stand to put on a few pounds; I’m used to curvier women. Strangely, her ample chest seems out of proportion from the rest of her lean frame… not that I’m complaining. And the moment she insinuates that it’s related to a health issue, I scold myself for not remembering her selfie at the hospital sooner.
Dumbass!
I’m amazed that she’s so open about it. “Anyway, I really appreciate it, you know. The couch. The aspirin. The breakfast.”
“De nada.” I chuckle. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t be able to say this in French. “It was the least I could do.”
She timidly inquires about what happened, or didn’t… I didn’t dare to remove her clothes last night, apart from her sweater since I figured that she might get too warm. The fleeting thought of the missed opportunity caused by her alcohol consumption has my dick hardening within seconds and I concentrate on finding music to complement the lazy morning mood.
Mindlessly, I browse through my playlists until I find the instrumental soundtracks that I often listen to with Chloe. We devour our breakfast and the conversation flows easily. Out of the blue, she rushes to get her phone and her fingers fly across the screen so quickly that I can’t keep up. Such a mundane gesture, such a huge difference. Her ability to type at record speed makes me gawk at her as I think back about how young she looks, and how old she must be.
“Oh, you spoke with Greer!” she exclaims, her eyebrow spiking up while she cleans up her plate.
“What?” I ask, tearing my eyes from my food and shooting her an odd look. I stop chewing because she has my full attention now. Registering that she must have been texting her cousin, I explain the situation and apologize for invading her privacy, sort of. We laugh in unison when she scolds me for my John Wayne issue, oblivious to the fact that I used her phone despite not knowing her that well. Needless to say, I keep my mouth shut about scrolling through her pictures.
“You’re full of surprises, you know.” She leans down and pecks my cheek.
“To what do I owe the honor?”
“I don’t know, you’re…” She rubs two fingers on her chin, thoughtful. “Sweet?”
“Ouch!”
Chapter Eighteen
Worth It
Tig
“What?”My French addiction asks, not so innocently. “You’re…” Her bottom teeth nip at the center of her upper lip. “Considerate. I meant it in the nicest way possible.”
