by Tina Donahue
Clover’s heart ached. “That’s so wrong. It’s not who he is deep down. He can be wicked funny. He’s the sweetest guy ever. If his parents had given him some attention and love rather than constant criticism, he wouldn’t be uncomfortable around people. This has to stop now.”
“I don’t advise dragging him somewhere he doesn’t want to go.”
“If I hadn’t invited him to my place for dinner then ignored how reluctant he was, we wouldn’t be dating now…that is, if we still are. Sometimes, people need a gentle push to get them going. That’s all I intend to do.”
Deep voices sounded outside the door. Lauren glanced at her monitor. “Better put your plan together soon. He just came in.”
His footfalls pounded in the hall, keeping time with Clover’s galloping heart. She stood. “Thanks for the talk.”
“You bet. Good luck.”
She didn’t need it. She wasn’t going to accept anything except success. Already, Van Gogh was too precious for her to walk away from and leave him to solitude or misery. Beneath his surface lived a cool guy with a killer wit, the real Cornell Phillipe Wadsworth the Third. Not the automaton he’d become to protect himself from hurt.
She left Lauren’s office and stopped in his doorway.
He faced his computer, his hands paused on the keyboard, and glanced over.
Either her heavy breathing or perfume had caught his attention. Smiling, she stepped inside and closed the door. “I won’t take long. I know you have to work. I missed you last night and this morning. I like you. How do you feel about me?”
Pain flickered in his eyes. He crossed the room and took her in his arms. “I want you more than ever. I’m sorry for being a prick before you left. I went by your place a few minutes ago to tell you that, but you were gone.”
He couldn’t have given her a better reason for coming in here late.
She embraced him. “Let’s be honest. I don’t know any other way to be. All right?”
“Honest about what?”
“You know. Please don’t pretend you’re not following what I’m saying.” She eased back and cupped his face. He hadn’t shaved or combed his hair. The circles beneath his eyes told her he hadn’t slept any better than she had. “This started when I mentioned the bash last night. If I’d known how you felt beforehand, I would have eased into the subject rather than sucker-punching you with it. But that’s done, and all I can say now is it’s only a party. I swear, it won’t be that bad. Certainly not as gruesome as a prostate exam.”
He chuckled and groaned. “I don’t do well with the ‘in’ crowd. Never have. My middle school and high school days were pure awful.”
“So were mine. Back then, the cool kids didn’t have anything to relieve their boredom except picking on people like us. It’s different now that we’re adults. The people who go to these things are into themselves more than anything else. We’ll be invisible to them.”
He gave her a look that said he didn’t believe a word. “Won’t that defeat your purpose in selling your jewelry and my inking skills?”
“They’ll notice that stuff, not us. Think back to when your parents’ chef cooked a particularly great meal. Did they focus on him or the food? Was he a human being to them, who deserved recognition, or a faceless entity fading into the background?”
Van Gogh slouched. “My tats aren’t what you call typical.”
“I know, they’re amazing.”
He smiled weakly. “People, especially women, have been known to screw up their faces or groan when they see them. Some might laugh. It’s happened.” He lowered his face.
She ached for him. “When? Tell me, please.”
He rubbed his forehead. “I got brave once, or maybe it was crazy, and attended an art show, the kind I’ve always wanted to have for my work. I thought I’d get some pointers on what was selling and what I should be doing to succeed.” He groaned. “Since the artist in question does funky stuff, I mistakenly thought his clientele would be the same. You know, Hollywood types like the Kardashians who have no limits or shame and think wearing their underwear at a red-carpet event is perfectly okay. How wrong I was.”
He sagged against the counter. “People like my parents were there dressed in tuxes, gowns, jewels, and even furs despite how politically incorrect it is to wear a poor animal. Since it was eighty or so outside, I wore a short-sleeved dress shirt. It and my pants were nice, which meant I didn’t look like a bum. As far as the art patrons were concerned, I might as well have been from outer space. Granted, they had been drinking heavily if their loud conversations and noisy laughter were any indication, but the moment they saw my arm tats, shaved head, and goatee—I had one at the time—they shut up and stared. The women my age made faces, elbowed one another, and whispered. One joined the group late, downed her champagne, took one look at me, and laughed. The others joined in. Security rushed up and—”
“I’m sorry.” What he was saying killed Clover, and she’d had to interrupt. “They were turds, okay? The kind of people you ran from who think their worldview is the only one that counts. The group that will be at this party isn’t like that at all. Nothing shocks them, and I can prove it. I’ve worn my jeweled eyebrows in their presence, though I pasted the things on rather than getting my face pierced, and they didn’t laugh. The women asked me about them. Some even saw similar pieces at the Chanel show in 2012 or 2013, but said mine were cooler. Though clearly not cool enough.” She made a face. “Wish I could’ve sold a few.”
“Jeweled eyebrows?”
“Yeah, better than what Oprah wore in A Wrinkle in Time. The set I made is in the case up front. I modified the original design from the Chanel show to make them my own like you do with your tats. If those pieces didn’t make the people I’m talking about react like the ones at the art show, nothing will.”
He didn’t look convinced. “I don’t have anything to wear.”
“Jeans are fine. Do you still have the short-sleeve dress shirt you mentioned?”
“Why?”
“So you don’t cover up the bullet hole designs on your arms. With the shirt buttons undone, you’ll give a glimpse of your chest design. When interested parties ask to see it, you can pull your shirt open and show them your stuff.”
He looked like he might toss his cookies and rested his forehead against hers. “You consider that not getting noticed?”
“It’s good advertising. If you don’t want to speak to anyone, fine. I’ll act as your agent. That will give you a mysterious air, like you don’t give a crap about any of them.”
“I don’t.”
She pushed her pussy into his rod. “Then prove it and drive them fucking nuts with your persona. Come to the party with me. It could change your life.”
Chapter Fourteen
From grade school on, and especially after the art show fiasco, seclusion had been Van Gogh’s goal. He’d loathed his parents’ uptight gatherings, them demanding he dress like a Stepford kid, and his rehearsed comments prepared by media experts to impress the other one-percenters. Horrible, but not half the nightmare he’d originally faced in school without a clique for protection. Jocks bullied him and the other artistic types, calling them sissies then fags. When he approached, the hottest girls rolled their eyes then whispered or laughed, the same as the ones at the showing. He’d tuned out the cruelty then and later, dropped off the grid as much as he could, and carried on.
He’d lied to Clover. Of course he cared what others thought. He was only human, wanting to at least fit in and not be a pariah. Never happened in the distant or recent past and wouldn’t now. Fate had singled him out for pain, no different than people who survived a terminal disease only to die in a plane crash.
When someone was doomed, nothing could change it.
Certainly not this party. He dreaded going but didn’t want to let Clover down. Losing her over this would be too awful. He didn’t think she’d ditch him fast. She was too kind. She’d get tired of having to make different arrangements because o
f his hang-ups and would simply drift away.
Determined not to let that happen and to make the best impression, he took her to his apartment, showed her his limited wardrobe, and asked for help in what to wear.
She chose his newest black jeans and made faces at his button-down tops. “I’ll have to think about these.”
The next afternoon, she handed him a short-sleeve black shirt still creased from its packaging.
He fingered the fabric. “Did you just buy this?”
“There was a great sale on eBay.”
“How much did this cost? I’m paying you back.”
“I’ll take it out in trade.” She cupped his nuts. “Try it on.”
After they humped like sex-deprived inmates, he did as she asked. The cut was too tight, the cotton hugging him like skin. “You should have gotten a larger size.”
“This is a slim fit. Exactly how it should be. Shows off your muscles.” She unbuttoned the shirt to his waist and stroked his abs. “God, you’re hot.”
He glanced away from his reflection in the bathroom mirror. “I look like a pimp.”
“Dressed like this you’ll be the same as any other guy at the party.” She brought up several designers’ websites on her phone and showed him models who were his age.
They looked like shit.
The prices shocked him. “One shirt costs nearly as much as one of my paintings?”
“This designer is way overpriced. That’s why I bypassed his site and went to Overstock.com.”
“I thought you said eBay.”
“One of the two. Same diff. Wish I could finish my Clover Cuffs in time. With them binding my wrists behind my back, you could lead me into the party by a chain attached to a leather collar. Think of the statement that would make for your tats and my jewelry. A picture’s worth a thousand words, right?”
In her case, more like a million. “Please tell me you’re going to wear clothes.”
“No choice. I don’t have a metal breastplate or a medallion—to cover my pussy. If I did, that would’ve been too cool. I should send myself a text and get working on some designs. Along with Clover Cuffs, I could market the three pieces as a complete ensemble.”
Van Gogh stopped her before she left the bathroom. “What exactly are you going to wear?”
“Black jeans, high heels, and a vintage bustier. The cups plump me as well as Victoria’s Secret does.” She thrust out her chest.
For once, her boobs didn’t capture his attention. “You’re sure we won’t be dressed too weird?”
“Ever see YouTube vids with KISS, Alice Cooper, and other bands like that?”
“They’re hard rock, not metal.”
“The genres blur. You and I will probably be wearing way more clothes than everyone else at the party. Our outfits are totally straitlaced.” She stroked his bottom lip. “Promise not to stare at anyone.”
“Because I’ll go blind?”
“You’ll look like a newbie. Remember, you want to seem mysterious…the incomparable V with magic fingers and your ink thingy.”
“Tattoo machine would be more accurate.”
“Sounds good.” She nuzzled his neck.
He sagged against the wall, hauling her with him. “If anyone asks what the V stands for, swear you won’t say virile.”
“Won’t have to. Your build will tell them everything they need to know. Your nickname or real name isn’t their damn business. You should wear shades, too.”
“At night and inside wherever this is taking place?”
“A mansion. Not Buffet’s or Springsteen’s, I checked. Nearly as good as Mar-a-Lago, however. The band’s frontman knows people who know people. The shades will protect you.”
“From what?”
“People you knew in San Francisco.”
“What?” Van Gogh held her at arm’s length. “You invited people from my childhood and adolescence?”
“How could I? I don’t have their names, but you were rich and they’re rich. Don’t you guys go to the same parties?”
“Does every naturist or female artist who designs jewelry end up at the same places?”
“Point taken. Don’t know what I was thinking.” She finger-combed his hair. “However, the shades will add to your mystique. At least consider them.”
Van Gogh pictured them looking like an updated version of Gomez and Morticia. For him, a step up. As a kid he’d always felt like Lurch. “How long do we have to stay?”
“Dawn…or we can leave well before then if you’re uncomfortable.”
If he behaved like a wuss, he’d ruin her chance to sell her stuff and push his. She could have gone alone but had invited him to share her world. No other woman had ever believed in him that much. “We’ll go the whole nine yards. Guaranteed.”
She hugged him.
He danced her around the bathroom to Maroon 5’s “Sugar.” Her favorite song. Sweet and hopeful, just like her. How could he ever let her down? With her on his arm as the hottest babe there, the party couldn’t turn out that bad. He’d book some new ink customers, maybe even sell a painting. Miracle of miracles, he might even have a good time.
The possibility should have pumped his enthusiasm rather than increasing his anxiety.
…
By the night in question, Van Gogh couldn’t manage a full breath. He cut his jaw shaving, his hair wouldn’t lay right, the shirt looked more ridiculous than the first time he’d tried it on, and his new jeans already had a ripped knee, proving how cheap they were. He pulled another pair from his closet and swore at the guacamole smear he hadn’t noticed on the fly. After scrubbing off the green stain, he used his blow-dryer to remove the water spot.
His doorbell rang repeatedly, followed by sharp raps.
Couldn’t be Clover. He was supposed to pick her up after his Uber ride got him. Maybe that guy or woman had arrived early.
Van Gogh ran to his front room and looked out the peephole. Clover. He yanked open the door and had to keep from falling to his knees.
Her all-black outfit hugged and accentuated what curves she had. The bustier sported black bows to keep it closed, rather than buttons or a zipper. She’d worn the music jewelry on her left arm, a slave bracelet on her right, and silver earrings shaped like snakes that seemed to weave in and out of her lobes. Her flowery scent wafted toward him, turning his legs to water.
“Jesus, you look incredible and smell great.”
She bounced on spike heels, the extra inches making her nearly as tall as he was. “Thanks. You’re not wearing jeans or underwear. Why? Not that I don’t like the look.”
He covered himself before the neighbors or passersby got an eyeful. “I was getting dressed when you pounded. What are you doing here?”
She gestured to the right.
He leaned past the jamb. A stretch limo purred on the street. “Holy crap, is that ours?”
“The band needed it as a prop for their video shoot today. Since the car’s paid for till midnight, I asked if we could use it. They said no. Funny thing, the woman who owns the limo company has a sister and brother-in-law who live at my parents’ camp. Thinks they’re awesome and said yes. Small world, huh? I thanked her with one of these.” She lifted her arm, flexing the music jewelry. “She loves it.” Clover reached around and smacked his bare ass. “Get moving. Our carriage awaits.”
In his youth, Van Gogh traveled many miles in luxury cars and limos. He’d forgotten how nice being pampered felt. The buttery leather seat molded to his ass and back. He sipped a Wisconsin Belgium Red, a celebrated brew according to the article Clover pulled up online. There were smartphones, computers, and a TV available for use. His bathroom should be this well equipped and as big.
“Want some?” She offered strawberry licorice the frontman had left behind, and chocolate milk, another band favorite.
“Nope, it’s all yours.” He drank his beer and stifled a belch. “Is that their song playing?” Music pumped from hidden speakers, the tune catchy, the beat
pretty decent.
“Yeah. Hasn’t released yet.” She pulled off her high heel and ran her toes up his fly. “Enjoying yourself?”
“Can we spend the night in here?”
“Doing what?”
His cock stirred beneath her stroking. “If I had a rubber, I’d show you.”
“Your wish is my command, Mr. Master.” She grabbed several packets from a compartment and tossed them on his seat.
A wonderful surprise, except for one thing. “How’d you know those were there?”
“On the ride to your place the driver didn’t want to talk. He kept the partition up. Like now. That left me with nothing to do except explore.”
She did like to go through people’s medicine cabinets. “Bad girl. Do we have time?”
“We’ve been stuck at this light for a while. There are plenty more. Heavy traffic, too.”
Good enough for him. Van Gogh undid his jeans then pushed them and his boxer briefs down. His cock bobbed out, raring to go. “Come here. Wait.” He reached for a condom.
She did, too, and snatched the one closest to him. “Let me put it on.”
“Fine with me, as long as you hit your target this time. I’ll help.” He gripped his rod and swung it right and left. “Do you see it yet? In case you don’t, it’s between my legs.”
“Not to mention longer than a machete.”
He laughed. God, she was good for his ego.
Clover rolled the slippery latex over his shaft, pushed her jeans and black thong down, then climbed on.
Her cunt swallowed him slowly, her heat fucking welcome, muscles tensed, bringing him close to happy tears.
On a gentle grunt, she sat on his thighs, his cock fully within her.
They breathed hard.
Clover stroked his cut jaw. “That’s pretty bad. Should have gotten stitches.”
“My stapler did the trick. Stopped the bleeding.”
She kissed his wound. “I’ll tell the others you got in a knife fight. You stopped a gang war outside the parlor.”
He laughed. “Please don’t. Wouldn’t want to have to prove myself if a Rambo wannabe is in tonight’s crowd.”