Wicked Design (Wicked Brand)

by Tina Donahue

“Is she that twisted? Come on, show me your work. If you managed to stay awake this long, we can eat and check out your stuff at the same time.”

  “Fine.” He stood and offered his hand. “But no equivocating, or worse, lying. I want you to be honest.”

  She shook her head. “You want me to hurt you like your folks did. That’s what you’re used to. I refuse.”

  Of course, she did. Digging into his soul and knowing what made him tick better than he did was more fun for her. He pushed away his unease, polished off his cheeseburger, and grabbed his burrito. “I don’t think I like it when you’re right.”

  She patted his ass. “You’ll get used to it.”

  “Did you study psychology before jewelry? Did you go to a shrink?” Given her background that seemed likely.

  “I read online articles. Mainly success ones that asked if fame was worth pursuing. And would I be able to handle the downsides of wealth and adoration?” She made a face. “Given my current financial situation that seemed like an incredibly dense question, but hey, what do I know? Anyway, those articles questioned if I was sabotaging myself. If I have been, I want to stop. I’d rather not spend forty years chasing a dream I don’t want. My dad and mom couldn’t be happier with the paths they chose. I want to be the same, but I’m not them, and you’re not me. Is art your life? Do you need it to exist? Are you bummed when you don’t work on your projects? Can you give it up, ever?”

  “Hell no. I don’t even want to try.”

  “Then what are you waiting for? I showed you mine. Wow me with yours.”

  He hugged her but still wished this were about sex, not his talent. Days ago he would have dreaded proving both.

  His male prowess wasn’t in question any longer. She’d effortlessly released his horny beast. With any luck, she’d make his other head swell concerning his art. “Want some music first to put you in the mood? Something dark and gloomy?”

  “Your moans and groans will be enough.” She slipped her arm through his, pulled him down the hall, and opened the door to the bathroom. “Let’s go in.”

  “To shower?”

  “Later. I love to look through medicine cabinets at other people’s houses. You?”

  “Are you serious?”

  Laughing, she tugged him across the hall.

  The only furniture in the room was a double bed, nightstand, and lamp. He’d stacked his paintings everywhere else, even in the closet.

  She padded to a smaller work, a landscape in pale greens and pink.

  He joined her. “I got the idea for the colors from Vase with Pink Roses. The real Van Gogh painted it in 1890.”

  “This is beautiful. It’d make a great mural. Have you ever done one?”

  “Of Jasmina on the parlor front door.”

  “You did that?” Clover glanced at his paintings. “It’s not your style.”

  “Frank, the original owner, offered me two hundred bucks for something sexy. I gave him what he wanted. Beggars can’t be choosers. I did a mural in the break room, too. Be right back. Hold this.” He shoved his burrito at her. “Wait.” He took a huge bite of the thing, gave the rest to her, then hurried to the living room.

  Cell phone in hand, he returned and brought up shots he’d taken of the break room when Lauren talked about selling the place. At the time, Van Gogh expected to use the photos for his portfolio. If he couldn’t find another gig as an ink artist, he’d planned to paint murals in houses and churches, or portraits in a mall. “Next time you’re at Wicked Brand I’ll show you this in person.”

  He gave her his phone.

  She scrolled through the pictures.

  The mural created an illusion of standing on an ancient terrace and provided a three-hundred-and-sixty degree view of the sea. Water stretched endlessly to distant mountains. Vines with white, pink, and purple flowers clung to graceful arches. On the ceiling he had simulated pitted stone.

  “Wow.” She tapped the picture. “This is amazing.”

  “It’s lame. Any competent artist could do it.”

  “I think you’re wrong.”

  “Like you are about your flower jewelry that you consider ordinary?”

  “Touché. We’re a sorry pair, aren’t we?” She bumped his shoulder.

  He kissed her hard and deep. “You taste good.”

  “Thanks. But I still want to see everything.” She studied each piece, the not so good, the truly bad, and the downright ugly, choosing the ones she liked most. Those had funky colors, angles, and compositions.

  They were his favorites, too. “Why’d you pick them?”

  “They’re your style, not some dead artist’s. These have soul. It shows. I’m no expert with oils, but you shouldn’t waste your time on this other stuff.” She gestured to his rejects. “Stick with this technique. Make it yours, no one else’s. Don’t ever give up.”

  “I wasn’t planning to unless the parlor tanks, I can’t find another job, and I’m too poor to buy materials and eat at the same time.”

  “That’s never going to be a problem.” She slipped her arms around his waist, hands on his ass.

  Van Gogh pressed close, his cock to her pussy, exactly where both parts belonged. He brushed her nose with his. “You’re a seer, too, and know what’s going to happen?”

  “Not with the parlor—with you. Remember the metal band I mentioned? They called me. They’re having a no-holds-barred party end of the week in Palm Beach. Might be at Jimmy Buffet’s or Springsteen’s place. I think they live there. If not them, someone equally important and hopefully more recent, not old. And certainly rich. Asked if I wanted to party hearty and work, wear my designs, maybe snag some sales. You can show off your tats when we’re there. That group is young, into everything, has money to spare from their daddies, and will go wild with what you’ve done to yourself. You’ll have so many bookings Wicked Brand will never close. Sounds like fun, right?”

  His skin went clammy, and his stomach fell. What she’d proposed sounded like his youth all over again. The “in” crowd boogying wildly. Him on the sidelines, watching. Or worse, trying to be inconspicuous so he wouldn’t be noticed and demeaned for everyone else’s enjoyment.

  Once those trust-fund babies got a look at his tats and him, the insults and snide remarks could come fast and hard.

  In front of Clover, no less.

  Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.

  She might have liked him as he was, but she was special, one in a zillion, nice rather than judgmental.

  The others weren’t and wouldn’t be. He’d grown up with kids like that. They’d been given the world from the moment they drew their first breath and were told no one else compared. They had a right to find fault and belittle, which they did with increasing cruelty. That proved how much better they were.

  His circumstances and youth had chained him to them until he was old enough to escape.

  And now, Clover wanted him to return to that.

  Oh fuck, no. Not again, after all these years.

  He wanted to run.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Clover gushed about the upcoming party and kept waiting for Van Gogh to share her enthusiasm or at least comment. No such luck. He glanced at everything in the room except her. She spoke faster and faster, her words a blur. Winded at last, she wound down. “What’s wrong?”

  “Huh? Nothing. You want this?” He handed her his burrito. “I’m full. Want another beer?” He left her alone in the bedroom.

  Not the reaction she’d expected. She padded after him.

  Rather than go to the kitchen for more booze, he pulled on his jeans and avoided looking at her.

  Her stomach cramped. She wasn’t sure what was going on with him, or, if she’d done something wrong, what it could be. “Are we through with each other?”

  He looked over, his face white. “What?”

  “We’re not going to play anymore tonight?” She had no idea how or why she’d offended him, but he wasn’t happy. Crap. He was back to being the way he was befor
e she’d cornered him at the parlor for a tat. Like he couldn’t get away fast enough or couldn’t wait for her to back off. Talk to me.

  He didn’t.

  Unable to stand the suspense, she had to know what was going on even if the truth killed her. “Do you want me to leave?”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “You’re getting dressed.”

  He looked at his unzipped jeans. Surprise flashed on his face. “I—I’m tired that’s all. I need to sleep.”

  “In your clothes?”

  His cheeks turned red. Frustration or anger hardened his features. “I thought I’d eat first.”

  In the bedroom, he’d said he was full. “We can feed each other.”

  He stepped back. “You take it all. I’ll catch something somewhere else.”

  “You’re leaving to go out?”

  “What? No.” He frowned. “I meant for breakfast. After I sleep.”

  She chanced a step toward him. “We could go to bed now, if you want. I’ll hold you while you fall asleep.”

  “Why would you do that?” He glared. “Do you think I’m a damn infant incapable of taking care of myself or of being normal?”

  “What? No.” She wasn’t a shrink by any means, but she could see he was trying his best to start an argument, while she was trying like hell to keep him from it. “The way I held you at my place. You enjoyed it then. Tell you what, I’ll bring the food into your bedroom and when we wake up we can feed each—”

  “It’s been a long day.” He stepped back. “I’m sorry if I can’t keep up with you. I said I wasn’t Superman, and I’m not. You’re free to stay and crash on the sofa if you want, but I have a lot to do tomorrow, and I have to get some sleep.” He strode to the bedroom.

  Stunned, she followed.

  He closed the door.

  Even her worst dates hadn’t ended this badly or as quickly. A faint click sounded. He’d locked the door, like he needed protection from her.

  He sure as fuck did. She wanted to pound on the damn thing. Kick it in if need be. As far as she recalled, nothing had happened besides her stupid party invite. Even if he didn’t know anyone there and didn’t like that idea, she’d be hanging on his arm and running interference if need be. Besides, it wasn’t the first time she’d asked him somewhere. When she suggested he join her to visit her folks at the colony, he’d looked appalled but hadn’t run away. After the first awkward seconds, they’d eaten and screwed around.

  Tears filled her eyes. She brushed them away, too confused to let herself feel hurt. That would hit in the morning and during the endless days ahead if they actually broke up before they even got started. And over what? Damned if she knew. She wanted to knock and ask him to talk to her but was afraid he might and give her an answer she couldn’t bear.

  With no other choice, she packed her stuff, dressed, and left, hoping he’d rush out and follow, like a scene from This is Us or any other stupid TV program where people got back together for a little while before their relationships tanked again.

  A few couples passed on the sidewalk, holding hands or kissing.

  Clover turned to his living room window.

  He didn’t watch her melting in the suffocating heat.

  Blocks from her place, she pulled out her smartphone and wrote a text, telling him he didn’t have to pay her electric bill. She didn’t mind sweating to death.

  Clover couldn’t send it. If nothing else, she valued honesty in a relationship and didn’t want to play games or be flip.

  She composed another message, thanking him for dinner, and erased that one, too, since she hadn’t touched the burrito he’d bought her.

  Back at her place, she considered letting him know she’d reached home safely. That one she sent and waited an hour for his response. It never came. She fell into a troubled sleep and repeatedly jerked awake, thinking her phone had rung, buzzed, or pinged, whatever setting she’d put it on.

  Come morning, she broke down and called.

  His voicemail greeting answered. “Leave a message or don’t. Up to you.”

  She smiled at his gruff, don’t-bother-me tone, delighted to hear him and hoped she’d sound mellow and approving of everything he was, even when he acted like a dick. “Hi, it’s me. Ah, I wanted to thank you for the beer last night and for showing me your stuff. Your art, that is.” She forced a laugh and paced. “Anyway, your paintings are great, like I said. I’d never BS you about them. I hope you know that. I’m glad you liked my cuffs. Your idea for bronze, like skin—hey, like yours, right?—that was a cool suggestion. I’m going to—”

  The voicemail cut her off.

  She didn’t have the courage to phone again but did wait fruitlessly for him to get back to her.

  By midafternoon she couldn’t stand his silence or the suspense any longer and ran to the parlor. Tor inked a woman’s calf in the front window and gave Clover a broad grin. His groupies, all babes, lifted their smartphones and snapped his picture.

  Jasmina wasn’t at the front counter. Customers took up every inch on the sofas. Those who hadn’t grabbed a seat paced and talked into their smartphones. An older couple perused Van Gogh’s oils and Tor’s sketches.

  Unwilling to wait for a formal escort to the back, Clover hurried down the hall to Van Gogh’s station. Empty. She rushed past it to what must have been the break room. The mural he’d mentioned floored her. His pictures hadn’t done the painting justice.

  “Can I help you?”

  A twentysomething guy she’d never seen sat at the table, his lunch nearly eaten.

  She offered a wan smile. “Do you know where V is?”

  “V?”

  “Van Gogh.”

  “Beats me. I haven’t seen him today.”

  Clover raced to Lauren’s office and rapped lightly on the jamb, not wanting to wake Molly. The little girl slept in Lauren’s arms.

  Lauren glanced up, smiled in surprise, then sobered quickly. “What’s wrong?”

  “V isn’t in his station.” Clover lowered her voice even more. “Where is he?”

  “V?”

  She had to stop using that nickname around here. “Van Gogh.”

  “Oh. He’s on his way. He had stuff to do and said he’d be late and asked us to give his appointment to someone else or reschedule it.”

  For him to ditch a customer for other matters didn’t sound right. If nothing else, he was serious about his art, even when it was tattooing someone. Something must be majorly wrong to have kept him away, and it started last night when she’d been at his place. “What stuff?”

  “He didn’t say. I didn’t ask. Are you okay?” Lauren squinted. “You don’t look it. Did you two argue?”

  “I wish.”

  “Come in and tell me what happened. Close the door.”

  Clover did so gently. “Is he on drugs?”

  Lauren gaped. “God no. Why would you think that? He doesn’t even drink that much. Maybe a beer every couple of months.”

  “Is he bipolar? Did he forget to take his meds?”

  Lauren blinked. “Not that I know of on either count. He’s moody, yes. Surly at times, sure. At least until he met you. These last days with him have been great. But wild mood swings? No, I’ve never seen that. Did you?”

  Clover recounted an abbreviated and G-rated version of their evening: her invitation, his non-response, the fallout. “One minute he was fine then, bam, he wouldn’t talk to or look at me. Hell, he didn’t even want to be in the same room.” She wrung her hands. “I think it began when I mentioned Jimmy Buffet and Springsteen. Does Van Gogh know them? Could he be worried they’ll tell his parents—Van Gogh’s—that he’s in South Florida? I’m not sure they like either guy’s music. They’re very conservative. Van Gogh’s as liberal as they come.”

  “Whoa. You lost me.” Molly stirred. Lauren rubbed her back. “How could he possibly know either of those guys? They’re celebrities.”

  “Rich people travel in the same circles, don’t they?
”

  Lauren’s mouth sagged open. “Van Gogh has money?”

  “His parents do.”

  “Up to this point, I didn’t know they were still alive. He’s never mentioned family. I thought he was an orphan, possibly raised in foster care.”

  Clover sat on the sofa and gripped her knees. “That couldn’t have been much worse for him than what he went through. His parents insisted he give up art, get married, become Gordon Gekko, and work in insurance, healthcare, or pharmaceuticals. I can’t remember which, but some big business thing his dad owns. I shouldn’t be telling you this. Please don’t repeat it to anyone. He’ll hate me even more.”

  “Of course, I won’t say anything.” Lauren frowned. “I can’t believe he’d hate you because of a party invitation. My guess is you scared him.”

  “How? He didn’t freak out when I asked him to go with me to visit my parents while he and they and I were naked.”

  “Huh?”

  She rubbed her forehead. “They’re naturists. I used to be, too. It’s a long story. How could a simple party scare him, especially if I’ll be there? Is he religious? Is music and dancing against his beliefs? Did I tempt him too much?”

  “I’m assuming you tried to pull him out of his comfort zone, and he panicked. He’s painfully shy around everyone.”

  Clover had thought he was that way only with women—that’s what Lauren had said—and he was simply sullen or disinterested in everyone else. “You’re sure? You haven’t seen him with me. A porn star couldn’t do better.”

  Lauren’s face colored. “One-on-one behind closed doors with someone he likes, and who’s into him as you are, is different than a social situation with strangers. Even people he knows well. Tor, Dante, Jasmina, and I are practically his family, and he still mostly grunts around us instead of talking. The most I know about him is what he does here and the stuff he put on his employment app. Nothing personal like what he told you. At my wedding reception, which was a simple backyard affair with friends and family, he didn’t interact with anyone except Jasmina, and not all that much with her. As I recall, he looked like an inmate on a TV show, walking those last steps to his execution.”