Wicked Design (Wicked Brand)

by Tina Donahue

  During their meal, his phone kept ringing.

  He looked at the display. “Sorry, I have to take this.” He turned to the side and spoke to Portia, or Shell, or whoever couldn’t wait for him to call them back.

  Clover picked at her meal. He ate in between his conversations with the others, cleaning his plate, his appetite healthy.

  By the time his phone quieted, she didn’t dare open her mouth, afraid she’d really let him have it, in a public place no less. Since that wasn’t her style, she endured, holding everything in for when they got back to her apartment.

  “This is nice, huh?” He squeezed her hand and glanced around the room adorned with lanterns, brightly colored blankets, and other Spanish-style decorations. “Ready for dessert?”

  “Sure. How was your day?” Even when he hadn’t been on the phone tonight, he’d never mentioned his work or his ideas for new paintings. Something they always discussed, along with her jewelry designs, giving equal attention to both. “Good, bad, indifferent?”

  “Actually, pretty damn great. Got a fifty dollar tip from a biker for a design a grade schooler could have done, not that I’m complaining. He’s paid for our dinner tonight and my lunch tomorrow, too. Think I’ll get something from here.” Grinning, Van Gogh motioned for the server and ordered their favorite pastries.

  As the young man left, Clover finished her beer and waited for Van Gogh to ask about her day.

  He gobbled chips and salsa.

  His phone dinged. A text. He glanced at it and texted back. The interaction went on clear through dessert and him paying the bill.

  Once at her door, she’d already prepared what she wanted to say about deserving his undivided attention when they were together, the same as she gave him.

  He trailed her inside and made a beeline for the bed. “Mind if I lie down for a few minutes? I’m kind of beat.” He sank to the mattress. “If I’m not up in five, hit me with your hammer.”

  Laughing, he closed his eyes then stilled, fast asleep.

  She lost her courage to wake him and say how she felt: ignored, dismissed, unimportant. Most couples had to be married for decades before wives felt as she did. Hanging on to what little pride she had left, she worked on her jewelry until her eyes grew gritty then lay next to him but didn’t touch. She was light-years from wanting to be intimate.

  When morning came, he’d already left for the parlor. Nothing changed, and it was her fault. Rather than telling him she wanted to talk, she’d waited for the perfect opportunity to set things straight between them.

  The opportunity never came.

  In the following weeks he either postponed their times together or sent a text telling her he’d arrive late.

  His unending delays gave her too much time to finish her Clover Cuffs. When he finally did drop by for a quick kiss and to deliver a meal he couldn’t stay to eat, he didn’t notice her designs on the table.

  Not once did he mention her special tat.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Sleep deprived, Van Gogh sprawled on the convertible chair in his station, lights off, door closed, arm over his eyes. He breathed deeply.

  The intercom crackled, his cell phone rang, the door opened.

  Apparently, it was showtime again. No rest for the wicked, especially if a walk-in had arrived.

  He grabbed his phone. Zeke. Shit. Shell had left a voicemail. Trinity a text. Crap. They needed to get jobs like regular folk and learn patience. He held up his finger to whoever had come inside then answered his ringing phone.

  “Hey, Zeke. I’m in the middle of something. I’ll have to get back to you.”

  “This will take only a sec. I changed my mind on the design I want. I—”

  “This isn’t a good time. We’ll have to talk later. I have another client at the moment.”

  “One who will give you a thousand dollar bonus? I don’t think so. I want to settle this now. I’m—”

  “We’ll talk later, promise.”

  “Right this sec is better for me. I—hold on. I have another call. Be right back.”

  Van Gogh looked over.

  Tor stood in the doorway. “Got a minute?”

  “For what?”

  “Say yes.”

  “No.”

  Tor came inside anyway, flicked on the lights, and closed the door. “Look, I’d rather not be here, but I think it’s better I talk to you than Lauren or Jasmina, because they will eventually. You don’t want to fuck with Jasmina. She’ll tear you apart and won’t put you back together.”

  Van Gogh sagged to the cushion. “For what? Being a few seconds late for my shift? She’s the manager, not my parole officer. When Noah and Kyle come over, she couldn’t care less if the parlor burned down.”

  “Quit acting like a fucking tool, okay?”

  He hung his arm over his eyes. “Fine. I’m sorry I said anything bad about her. She’s a one-of-a-kind snowflake. Best woman on Earth. Now, will you leave?”

  “Not until I tell you a little secret you don’t seem to get. Deep down—currently, deeper down than usual—you’re a good man. One of the best I know. I like and respect you. Or at least I did.”

  “That’s your secret?” Van Gogh slid his arm to his forehead. “What have I done to you?”

  “It’s what you’re doing to yourself and this parlor. You may think you’re popular with these new people you met, but I can guarantee they’re as loyal to you as groupies are to this month’s favorite band. Someone else comes along and they’ll knock you down to get to that person. What you have with them isn’t friendship or loyalty. If it were, they wouldn’t run you ragged. If that’s what you want to do with your life, hey, your choice. But it’s affecting this place now.”

  Stung by Tor’s words, Van Gogh turned off his phone and spoke through his teeth. “How am I doing that?”

  “How the fuck else?” Tor rubbed his forehead. “You’re not paying attention to the regular clients who actually come here during our hours and play by our rules. You’re interrupting sessions to take calls, discuss designs, soothe feelings, and whatever the fuck else they have you doing. They may be inviting you to their parties, but they’re also using you like they do everyone else who isn’t in their social circle. I don’t mean to hurt you, and I honestly hate to say this, but they’re not that into you, man. Not like you want.”

  Van Gogh’s face burned. “You think I don’t know that?”

  Tor threw up his hands. “Then why in holy hell are you putting up with their shit?”

  “They might buy my paintings. Word of mouth from them could make a lot of difference in my popularity as an artist in this country and even overseas. They, or their parents, all own villas and shit over there.”

  “Have they seen anything you painted?”

  He wanted to run. Trapped, he squeezed his fists. “I’m looking for the right moment to show them my work.”

  “Do they even know you paint?”

  Fuck. “No, all right?” Van Gogh hit the cushion, more pissed with himself than he was with Tor. “I should have told them before now, but I’m not the great Tor Avana. When was the last time a woman drooled over you? Twenty seconds before you came in here to ream me out? How about the last time someone insulted your looks or personality? Called you a fag because you like art instead of stupid sports? Would that be never?” Van Gogh pointed. “Don’t you dare tell me how I should feel. Cool people have never paid attention to me like they have to you, except to make fun and tell me what a troll I am. It felt good to be treated nice for a change, like a person who deserves respect, and to have my designs appreciated rather than sneered at. Hell, it does feel good. I have a right to some happiness.”

  Tor pulled up a chair. “Of course you do, but from this group it’s not real. That’s all I’m saying. What about Clover?”

  Van Gogh leaned away. “What about her?”

  “For nearly a year, she watched you ink in the window. She looks at you like you invented air. I thought you liked her. Doe
sn’t she count?”

  He didn’t want to consider what his life would be like without her. Definitely worse than it already was, which was pissing bad, and it was entirely his fault. “More than I do. She’s too good for me.”

  Tor laughed and punched Van Gogh’s leg. “Sounds like love. Is she okay with what you’ve been doing?”

  “We don’t discuss it.” They hadn’t talked in days or made love in weeks. She’d turned down every party invite, telling him he should go and have a good time. Lately, whenever he texted or called, she was busy or had her phone on voicemail. No one had to paint him a picture. Repeatedly, he’d been late for their time together or distracted when they did hook up and always torn by too many competing requests, giving in to those from others rather than hers. She’d accepted his delays and apologies until she hadn’t and backed away, making herself scarce. Fuck, what an idiot I’ve been. He sagged. “I know this sounds lame, but all I really wanted was to have some fun at first, then sell my artwork, get a jumpstart on my career, feel worthy.”

  “How’s that working out?”

  Van Gogh couldn’t find enough bad words to describe his situation. Although that first night with the in-crowd had been magic, the other times had disappointed and became boring then grueling. He’d kept at it, trying to get that same high, and ended up running faster and faster to make everyone else happy to prove himself.

  He’d wanted to quit for weeks but kept going like the Energizer Bunny, hoping he’d at least further his art by enduring their shit. Repeatedly, Zeke, Jacob, Shell, and the others said he had to attend the next party and the next so they could intro him to important people. He kept praying they were talking about someone who could help his career. Those VIPs never showed or probably didn’t even exist, since all he met were more jerks like the others who asked endless questions regarding tats, then expected him to listen to their problems concerning shit he didn’t care about.

  Deep down, he’d known his career wouldn’t go anywhere with them but hadn’t wanted to face it until now. Nothing had changed from his youth. He was still the ultimate outsider and worse than a goddamn idiot. He was pathetic.

  “Excuse me.” Jasmina spoke from somewhere near Lauren’s office. “Hold on. You can’t go down there.”

  Tor glanced over at her voice.

  Heavy footfalls pounded, belonging to a man. A door opened then slammed. Another opened.

  Jasmina called out, “What are you doing? You can’t barge in on clients. Stop that.”

  “Relax. Once you tell me where V is, I’ll be a good boy, ’kay?”

  Van Gogh blinked at Zeke’s dismissive, self-indulged comment and him even being here.

  “I’m not telling you anything.” Jasmina had raised her voice. “You’d better leave.”

  “Oh yeah? Guess what, I’m not budging until I’m good and ready. Got it, Mah-reeeeeee-ah?”

  Van Gogh was off the convertible chair and at the door, yanking it open before Tor could. His heart pounded so damn hard at Zeke’s exaggerated Spanish accent and racial slur, he could barely breathe.

  Zeke faced him. “There you are. Finally. I was trying to tell you I was on my way here, but you kept cutting me off. Found this design for my tattoo I want you to look at. This is something you have to see in person. A photo won’t do.” He jiggled his car keys. “I’ll drive. Don’t worry about what you’re doing here. I’ll pay you triple what they’re giving you. Let’s go.”

  Van Gogh squeezed his fists even harder and spoke to Jasmina. “Sorry. I’ll take care of this.”

  Her frown said he’d better.

  He wrapped his arm around Zeke’s neck like buddies do when they’re horsing around, only he wanted to do serious harm. “Tell her you’re sorry now.”

  “What? Why?”

  “For acting like a dick.” He tightened his hold. “Do it. I’m not asking again.”

  “Okay, okay.” He bowed his head to her. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to offend.”

  The hell he hadn’t. Van Gogh shook him hard. “You should listen better. Like the lady said, no one comes back here unless they’re ready to get inked. Everyone else waits up front, like a good boy. Got it?” He pulled him toward the waiting area.

  Zeke squirmed. “Let go. What the fuck’s the matter with you?”

  What should have been from the beginning with jerks like him. Van Gogh grabbed Zeke’s arm and dragged him past the counter to his paintings for sale. “By the way, I’m a traditional artist. My medium is oil. These are my latest works.”

  “So?”

  “Look. At. Them.” Van Gogh crowded him. “Buy some. Introduce me to your VIP friends who know art and can help my career. Got it?”

  Zeke blinked. “Are you high?”

  That answer told Van Gogh everything he needed to know and should have realized from the start. He’d never mattered to Zeke or the others, not even for a second. He hauled him to the front door and opened it. “Get your tats somewhere else. I’m busy. Don’t ever come back to this place. Don’t call. If you dare talk to Jasmina again as you did, or anyone else here like that, I’ll make sure you regret it.”

  “You fucking think I’d come back to this dump after you—”

  Van Gogh shoved him out and closed the door.

  A biker and middle-aged man waiting to get inked looked at Zeke storming away then lowered their gazes to their smartphones.

  Jasmina pumped her fist.

  Lauren mouthed “About damn time.”

  Long fucking overdue. He hadn’t felt this stoked in weeks or as determined about his next move…what he had to do when it came to Clover.

  The only person who had ever mattered to him.

  Please don’t let it be too late for me to fix things between us.

  He ran to his station.

  Tor stood in the hall. “Everything all right?”

  Not even close. “I’ve fucked things up worse than I thought I ever could. I have to talk to Clover. Can you cover for me?”

  “Sure.”

  “No. Wait. I have to do something first.”

  “Need any help?”

  “Not with this.” Van Gogh dropped into his chair by the computer. “It’s something I should have done a long time ago but put off.” He looked over. “About our talk…”

  “Everything stays in here. I don’t gossip.”

  “Good to know. By the way, get in my face like that again and I’ll slice off your nuts.”

  Tor clamped Van Gogh’s shoulder. “You’re welcome. Next time I act like an ass feel free to say so. That’s what friends are for.”

  Lovers, too. Especially those who liked a person in spite of his faults, maybe even because of them. Weeks earlier, Clover had tried to open his eyes about his behavior but had been too nice, then distant. She should have slugged him.

  Tor left.

  The intercom buzzed. “Van Gogh.”

  Jasmina.

  He pulled up websites for his research. “You okay?”

  “Yeah. Thanks for what you did.”

  It wasn’t nearly enough. “I’m sorry for what I’ve put you through. Everyone else here, too. Next time I lose my mind, I hope you’ll brain me before my bad judgment affects you or this place.”

  She chuckled. “Don’t worry, I will. You have a call. Line three.”

  “Who?” He swiveled to face the intercom. “Clover?”

  “I wish. It’s Peaches. Again. Says her calls to your phone are going to voicemail. End of the world, you know? Needs to talk to you. ASAP. For once, I think you should take the call. If she shows up uninvited like the prick you just threw out and you manhandle her, too, there could be a lawsuit.”

  “It won’t get that far, promise. Taking the call now.” He spoke before Peaches could. “I’m busy. Don’t call here again. Get your tat somewhere else. I don’t want to deal with you or any of your friends ever again, no matter how much money you promise to pay. Understand?”

  She laughed. “What is this, some kind of sick
joke? For your info, I’m not laughing. Shell is now saying she’s going to get the design I chose for my tattoo. Unless I find something better, which I might. Can you believe what she’s threatening to do? I mean, she really—”

  “You’re not listening. Don’t. Bother. Me. I’m never doing a tat for you, not even for a million bucks. I’d rather starve.”

  “Huh? What makes you think I care what you think or do? And drop the pissy attitude. It’s not funny.”

  “Wasn’t meant to be.”

  She made a noise betraying her surprise. “I’d watch it, if I were you. Have you forgotten who I am?”

  “With you constantly reminding me? Here’s a news flash, I don’t give a shit who you are. Quit bothering me. Harass someone else. Tell your stupid buddies the same, including Shell.”

  “Fuck you.” She killed the call.

  Free at last, he searched online between clients and during a late lunch, chomping on his Cubano as he scrolled. By seven p.m. he’d managed to pull together some pretty decent ideas. When nine o’clock rolled around, he itched to leave and phoned Clover.

  Her voicemail answered.

  He cut it off and sent a text.

  Can we talk 2nite? Plz?

  Only good stuff. 4 us. B by @ 10:15 sharp.

  At ten p.m. she still hadn’t responded.

  He raced from the parlor, tore down the few blocks to her place, and stopped at Alice’s Wonderland, panting. Worrying, too. Clover’s lights were off. She never conked out before midnight unless she didn’t feel well. Van Gogh didn’t want to hope for that, but the only other option meant he’d loused up so badly she’d moved on, because she had to, had possibly met someone else, a really nice guy instead of a dick, and might be on a date with him now.

  Reluctant to know but desperate to make things right between them, Van Gogh knocked on her door. Gently at first, then increasingly harder. No response. Pacing, he called her and got voicemail. “Hi, it’s me. I’m outside your place. Are you in there?” Please be. “Can we talk?”

  He waited for her deadbolt to clunk, signaling that she’d opened it. Nothing. Now he worried that she might not be on a date, but inside, unconscious. Her air conditioning unit wasn’t running. Had to be an oven in there. Shit, she might need CPR. “Clover!” He pounded. “Are you all right?”