Wicked Design (Wicked Brand)

by Tina Donahue

  Clover ended the call and wrote her text, not exactly speaking from the heart as she would have liked, but at least she was honest about how much she wanted him.

  Missed u this afternoon like mad. Can’t take much more.

  Dinner? My place? 10:30?

  I’ll get deli. All ur faves.

  Given his customer, she didn’t expect an immediate answer and didn’t get one for several hours.

  No cookin 4 u. I’ll buy.

  Give me till 10:45 2 get there.

  She’d waited a lifetime for him and could manage a little longer.

  Showered and dressed, she tidied up her place, made a drugstore run for rubbers, a grocery visit for beer, apple juice, Hostess cupcakes, and other essentials, then killed the remaining time with work. Absorbed with her Clover Cuffs that resembled a man’s fingers, aka mancuffs, she troubled over the sculpting and forgot the time.

  She checked her phone and gasped. Eleven thirty.

  Clover shot to her front door. He wasn’t in the hall, cooling his heels because she’d been too preoccupied to hear him knock.

  She hung out her front window. A lone guy glanced up. He waved. She ducked back into her apartment and checked her phone. No calls or texts from Van Gogh.

  He couldn’t have been run over or mugged. Lauren, Jasmina, or Tor would have called with the awful news unless Van Gogh was sprawled somewhere injured and bleeding, either unconscious or too hurt to tell passersby his name.

  She grabbed her house key and ran down the hall to the stairway.

  He lifted his face and stopped midway up the steps. “What are you doing out here?”

  “What are you?”

  “Coming to your place.” He lifted his bag, a local deli’s logo emblazoned on it. “Got everything you like.”

  She slumped against the railing. “Did a senior citizen tour bus stop there for food? The line wrapped around the block? Everyone in front of you couldn’t decide what they wanted?”

  “No. Besides me, there was only a couple with their teenage kids and the deli staff. Why?”

  He honestly didn’t know? “Did your client run late at the parlor?”

  “Uh-uh. I worked on designs the last hour I was there and then we closed when we usually do. Why?”

  She flashed her phone. “See the time? You said you’d be here at 10:45, not close to midnight. I thought a car had hit you or you’d been mugged.”

  He bounded up the steps and cradled her cheek. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you. Time slipped away. That’s all.”

  “With work?”

  “Sort of. Zeke called. We got to talking, and I didn’t notice how late it was. Forgive me?” He brushed his lips over hers.

  She kept her eyes open. “The Zeke you mentioned from last night’s party?”

  “Yeah. He’s Portia’s twin.”

  That made sense if Clover had known who the hell Portia was. Possibly a Mila Kunis look-alike who actually resembled Megan Fox after her crappy plastic surgery. “I’m glad you and Zeke got to talk. But didn’t you think to call or text me that you’d be late?”

  “I should have. Won’t happen again; I promise.” He slung his arm over her shoulders. “Let’s eat. I can’t wait to show you the designs I’ve come up with.”

  Surprised, she smiled. “I was going to ask you about my tat. Did you settle on geometric like you said, or did you find something else?”

  He stopped at her door. “Neither. I meant the ones for the people at the party. I’ll do your stuff as soon as I finish with them, I swear. They’re in a huge hurry. There’s an important party next month on Star Island. If I work things right, I can get everyone inked in time.”

  She pushed back her disappointment about her design and unlocked the door. “Did they invite you to the Star Island party last night?”

  “This is a new one Trinity just put together. Don’t know where they get the energy to play so hard.”

  “They probably pay their assistants and housekeepers to sleep for them.”

  “What?”

  Clover had mumbled her last comment. “They don’t have jobs, right? They’re trust-fund babies. It’s easy to party when you don’t have obligations and bills to pay.”

  “I guess. Do you mind if I turn down your unit? It’s stuffy in here. Like I said, I’ll pay the whole bill, since you’re having trouble.”

  Only because her jewelry wasn’t selling because she wasn’t popular with the right people, like him. “Knock yourself out.”

  He gave her an odd look and turned the dial back to sixty. “Where do you put your forks and spoons?”

  “Top drawer on the left.” He’d seen her grab them a dozen times and should have remembered by now. Juvenile on her part, she knew, like her other snotty thoughts, but her hurt kept mounting, fueled by how he’d behaved at last night’s party then showing up late this evening. As if she was an afterthought.

  He joined her, utensils and napkins in hand. “What are you doing?”

  “Leaving you the chair.” She sat cross-legged on her table.

  “Thanks. But you can have my lap. In fact, I prefer it.” He patted his thigh and smiled.

  The old Van Gogh shone through. Sweet, considerate, uncertain. She came close to caving but wanted him to grovel a bit for delaying her tat because it wasn’t as important as what Peaches, Shell, and the others wanted. More perverse and unfair thinking on her part yet she couldn’t stop, her full bitch-mode kicking in. “Why do you want me on your lap?”

  He pulled out his smartphone. “I can show you my designs for Zeke and the others more easily.”

  Wrong answer by a mile. Her shitty mood spiked. “Show me from where I am. I’m good.” She nibbled her roast beef and parmigiano sandwich.

  He grabbed his chicken salad layered with raisins and apple slices. Last time they’d eaten this stuff they’d shared their orders, unable to keep their hands off each other.

  Tonight he kept his distance and devoured half his sandwich before speaking. “Forgot the beer. You want one?”

  Booze would never replace closeness or soul-deep conversation. “I’d rather talk. Please.”

  He stopped and turned. “Sure. About what?”

  She wanted to say about how he was suddenly behaving, his casual disregard for her feelings. Sadly, she didn’t have the courage yet. She’d never loved a guy before and wasn’t sure how serious arguments should play out, especially if she spoke directly as she preferred. “Stuff like we always have.”

  “Absolutely. Go ahead and start while I grab a beer.”

  Catching him on the run wasn’t her idea of intimacy. “Do you like to talk to me? You’ve never said, and I just assumed you didn’t mind, since you went along with the program. If you don’t want to, say so.”

  He finished his sip, his eyebrows lifting. “Granted, I’ve never talked a lot before we met, but I don’t mind.” He frowned. “Why would you think I did?”

  She chewed her thumb, still too reluctant to call him on his earlier behavior. “It’s just that… You, more than anyone, should know being physically present doesn’t mean people are close emotionally.”

  “Why me more than anyone?”

  She waved her hand dismissively. “I shouldn’t have said that. Forget it.”

  “After the fact?” He returned to her. “Tell me. I want to know.”

  “Your parents and you lived in the same house but you weren’t close, okay?”

  “Are you actually comparing you and me to me and my folks?”

  “I don’t want things to go sour between us.” She stroked a bullet-hole tat on his arm. “We’ve barely started. Stuff was good. We had fun. We shared things that are important to us. Art. Our careers. Our dreams and fear about failure. I want that back.”

  “Oh, baby.” He gathered her in his arms. “Nothing’s changed. Did my arriving late tonight start this? If it did, I’m sorry for screwing up.”

  She hugged him. “You didn’t do it deliberately.”

 
“God no.” He rubbed her back. “Admittedly, I’m clueless for not having considered the hour or that you’d be worried something happened to me. Tell you what. Next time I do anything you don’t like, kick me in the balls. I guarantee that will get my attention fast.”

  She laughed. “And put you out of commission when it comes to satisfying me? No freaking way.” She snuggled against him. “Let’s make love until we have to go back to work tomorrow.”

  “Wish we could play hooky and take the entire day off.”

  “We could make the most of the time we have.”

  He carried her to the bed. Clothes flew. Limbs entwined. Mouths joined. They stared longingly, smiled broadly, and enjoyed each other to exhaustion.

  Sometime during the early morning Clover woke. Alone again.

  Van Gogh had left a note on her table.

  Had an early appt.

  Will see u 2nite at 10:45

  We’ll order pizza.

  Fifteen minutes before he should have arrived that evening, he called to cancel.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Forgiving usually came easy for Clover. She had more flaws than she wanted to admit and had never expected anyone else to be a saint, except for her parents when she’d been a rotten teen.

  Van Gogh was testing her patience big time. Twice more, he’d had to postpone their evening together for stuff involving Zeke, Jacob, Portia, and other people she’d never heard of and didn’t care about.

  To his credit, he did apologize profusely. “We’ll get together for that meal at Castillo’s, babe. I promise.”

  She gripped her smartphone to temper her irritation. “When? I’m asking only so I can plan my work. I don’t want to get involved in something I have to up and leave before it’s finished.”

  “Does tomorrow night sound good? If that’s okay with you then we’ll—hold on, I have to take this other call. Be right back.”

  “Wait! Tomorrow’s fine.”

  He’d already put her on hold.

  Ten minutes later, she was still waiting.

  Hurting as she never had, she killed the call and lay across her bed, wishing the comforter still smelled like him rather than fabric softener. He hadn’t been here in days, and it was killing her.

  Unwilling to confess her feelings to Lauren or Jasmina, who might get in Van Gogh’s face and make things worse, Clover phoned her mom to catch up on stuff, give her a chance to forget how lonely she felt. Hanging with Van Gogh, texting him, and having him Skype her had filled more hours than she’d realized.

  Her mom answered. “Hey, honey.”

  “Hey.” Clover pushed up on the mattress. “Am I interrupting anything?”

  “What kind of question is that?” Pure love filled her mother’s gentle voice. “Nothing’s more important than us talking. Give me a sec to turn off the burner. I was getting ready to make Dad his favorite pancakes.”

  Blueberry and caramel topped with slivered almonds. “Don’t stop on my account. I can call back after you guys eat. I should.”

  “No, you won’t. Dad doesn’t mind waiting. It’ll give him more time out front with Pete, soothing his feelings about his lawn. The kids are digging it up with their bikes again. I swear, if it wasn’t illegal, Pete would break their little legs.”

  He’d never been a nice man and her parents were too decent to evict him from the colony. The way Clover felt right now, she would have willingly slugged him. “What a jerk.”

  “Ah, yeah, he can be at times. What’s wrong? You sound funny, like you’re getting a cold. Is that why you’re in a bad mood?”

  Nursing a wounded ego was more like it, and she couldn’t keep her pain in any longer or pretend it didn’t exist. “I’m not pissed, more like confused.” And sad. “I met a guy.”

  Until this moment, she hadn’t mentioned Van Gogh to her folks and wasn’t sure why. Maybe deep down she was afraid she’d jinx something by broadcasting their relationship. She also wanted to avoid humiliation if things didn’t work out. Her mom knew about the Seth Cummings debacle in middle school. Although she did her best to soothe, her sweet concern made Clover feel like the biggest dumbfuck around.

  Her mother spoke. “You’re not sure you like him?”

  “I loved him before he knew I existed, so that’s not the problem.”

  “He doesn’t like you back?”

  “He did until a few days ago.”

  Chair legs scraping sounded from the other end. Her mother sitting. “Did you two fight about something?”

  Maybe they should have to clear the air. “No. We went to a party and Van Gogh—that’s his name by the way.”

  Her mother whistled softly. “How cool. Is he related to the famous artist?”

  “No. It’s the nickname he goes by, since he hates his given one. Who could blame him? It’s beyond pretentious. The real Van Gogh is his hero. My Van Gogh paints portraits and stuff, but also inks for a living, you know, tattoos. He’s going to give me one as soon as he figures out a design that will look good. His chest tat is amazing. Dad would really appreciate it and would probably want one.” Clover struggled to laugh then lay back and draped her arm across her eyes. “I don’t know what to do, Mom.”

  “About him not liking you any longer? Are you sure he doesn’t?”

  She wasn’t certain of anything and hated to say what had brought this on. It sounded beyond stupid, but she needed a second opinion on what was happening. “We make dates for dinner or other stuff, but right before he’s supposed to pick me up he keeps canceling.” She told her mom how shy and attentive he’d been in the beginning then about the people he’d met at the party and how they were monopolizing his time. “I know them liking his designs is important to him, and I’m trying to be supportive, but— Am I overreacting? I’m not sure, since I’ve never felt about anyone like I do him. I want us to work out. Did Dad do this to you after the initial glow wore off but you were still dating?”

  Footfalls sounded on the other end then her father’s voice. “Did I come back too soon?”

  “I’m talking to Clover. Go do your paperwork. I’ll call you when your pancakes are ready.”

  Her father called out, “Hey, sweetie!”

  Clover shouted back, “Hi, Dad!”

  Her mother got back on the phone. “I’m not being sentimental or romantic here, but the glow between your dad and I never wore off. He never canceled, either.”

  Clover could have lived without those answers. “He wasn’t worried about his art career like Van Gogh is. He’s struggled so long. This might be his big break. These jerks might introduce him to someone who’ll want his artwork. I’m making too much of him being with them instead of me, aren’t I?”

  “What do you think?”

  She wanted to scream. “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking you. So am I?”

  “Not if you’re sad and confused, which you are. I hear it in your voice. Have you talked to him about how you feel?”

  She ripped a bow from the comforter and tossed it on the nightstand next to the one Van Gogh had torn off weeks ago.

  No, she hadn’t told him how she felt. She’d been a wuss and was ashamed to admit it to her mom, but didn’t want to keep anything back and confessed the sorry truth. “I know, I know. I’m hopeless.”

  “You’re human, nothing wrong with that. However, holding back with him is not the Clover I know. What are you afraid of, honey?”

  “Being too needy. That’s not me, either.”

  “Who said you’re like that? There’s nothing wrong with you expecting him to treat you with respect and to show up when he says he’s going to. That’s simply being decent on his part. It’s not like you’re sitting around waiting for him to call without anything else to do. Are you?”

  “Of course not.” She wasn’t that bad yet and hoped she never would be no matter how much she wanted him.

  “You’ve said his career is important, but so is yours. Does he discuss your jewelry with you?”

  “He g
ave me some great ideas for this new design I have in the works.” She hadn’t told her folks about the Clover Cuffs, either, wanting to wait until they were finished to wow them.

  “Was that before he took off to be with these other people?”

  “Yeah. When we first met.” He hadn’t mentioned her jewelry in what seemed like forever. “He’s been busy since then.”

  “Sounds like it. Honey, you know I’d never tell you what to do. You’re a bright young woman, and I trust your judgment. However, if he can’t be there for you as you’ve been for him, then you two going out together—when he finally gets around to it—isn’t what you need. You’re beautiful, talented, and a wonderful person. You deserve the best.”

  Spoken like a mother. “He’s not a bad guy, Mom.” She shouldn’t have called and given her the wrong impression. “He’s just being pulled in too many directions.”

  “I understand, but are you on his map?”

  She hadn’t been lately, and that had to change. Her mother was right about that. “He’s taking me to dinner at Castillo’s tomorrow night. We can talk then. I’m going to be upfront and tell him how I feel about being ditched repeatedly for these other people. Work is important, but like you said, it shouldn’t be everything. I have to be in there someplace, too. Thanks for listening to me bitch and moan. I have to go now. Say bye to Dad.”

  She killed the call.

  Her phone rang. Van Gogh. Good timing. Clover wanted this over with so they could move on to the next hurdle in their relationship, whatever it might be. “Hey. What time are you picking me up for dinner at Castillo’s tomorrow?”

  “Ah, we’ll have to make it next week, all right? Tuesday. Just a few days away.”

  She slumped then straightened, not wanting to wait any longer to settle this. “Do you have time to talk now?”

  “Sorry, no. My client just arrived. I’ll call you later. Castillo’s is going to be great.”

  Before she could comment, he ended the call.

  …

  On the night in question, he phoned saying he’d be delayed for a few minutes then arrived an hour later than he’d promised.

  Clover forced herself to hold her tongue and be reasonable.