Wicked Design (Wicked Brand)

by Tina Donahue

  Footfalls sounded on the stairs. He ran to them. “Hi. I—oh.”

  An old lady with a baseball bat in one hand and a smartphone in the other stared at him.

  Van Gogh smiled weakly. “Thought you were Clover.”

  “No, I’m Alice. I own this building. I was ready to call the cops.” She lifted her phone. “Why all the noise?”

  He pointed behind himself. “I was trying to wake Clover. It’s hot in her apartment. She might have passed out.”

  “She’s not there.”

  He slouched. “She’s out for the night?”

  “No.”

  “Oh my God, she moved?” Since she hadn’t been able to afford air conditioning, rent might have also proved too much to handle. His belly clenched. “Do you know where?”

  “No. She didn’t move.” Alice squinted. Her old-fashioned glasses slipped down her nose. “Who are you, besides the young man I saw her with a few months back?”

  “Van Gogh.” He offered his hand. “Clover’s friend. Nice to meet you.”

  Alice dropped the phone into her shirt pocket then gripped his fingers harder than he did hers. “Same here.”

  “I’ve called and sent her texts. She’s not answering. I’m worried.”

  She stared at his bullet-hole tats.

  “If you need someone to vouch for me, call Jasmina, your former tenant. Call Tor, too. He’s with Marnie, your other former tenant. Tor, Jasmina, and I work together at Wicked Brand. We can do a conference call.” Van Gogh pulled out his smartphone.

  Alice put up her hand. “No need to bother them. Clover’s at a jewelry convention. Didn’t she tell you?”

  “I’ve been out of town.”

  “She didn’t call or send a text?”

  His answer hadn’t fooled Alice. Not that he could tell her the sorry truth about how he’d behaved with Clover. “I came here tonight to surprise her. She wasn’t expecting me to return so soon.”

  Alice tapped the bat against her calf. “She left me the event brochure before she took off. In case I needed to contact her about anything.”

  “Can I see it? Please.”

  “Come on down.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Thousands milled around the convention center, today’s event packed with industry reps and the public.

  A male voice boomed from speakers. “Azerial’s Gems, table thirty-five, is giving away ten sweetheart bracelets with semi-precious stones. Enter now. Drawing’s in two hours. Winners for Markson Brothers’ door prize, table sixteen, are…”

  Slumped in her chair, her smartphone in hand, Clover scrolled through the upcoming BDSM conventions. The jerk who ran this one refused to announce her Clover Cuffs contest and made her take down the banner she’d Photoshopped. According to him, her image bordered on offensive. In whose world? The model wore more than most women did on Florida beaches and had her back to the camera, cuffed hands above her ass, no boobs or nipples showing. The vendor across from Clover hawked gaudy necklaces that dipped low on a woman’s chest. He’d hung supersize cleavage posters, and no one had bitched at him.

  A swarthy man stopped at Clover’s table and eyed her wares.

  She beamed. “Morning. Let me know if you have any questions.”

  He pointed at the snake-eating-its-tail cuffs. “How many of these can you ship tomorrow?”

  The one on her table, which was the only one she had. She tensed at a possible sale. “They’re available only on custom orders. That’s what makes Clover Cuffs unique. I can produce five in ten days. Order twenty or more and I’ll throw in shipping and handling. Half down due when you order, the other half upon delivery.”

  He strolled away.

  Clover considered running after him but couldn’t gather enough energy to stand.

  Those passing by didn’t make eye contact with her. The few who glanced at her mancuffs wrinkled their noses.

  She rearranged her table, putting the corny, romantic pieces up front. A few shoppers browsed her offerings, mostly middle-aged women. No one ordered or bought anything. One did take her business card.

  Clover smiled. “Thank you. Have a great day.”

  The woman lifted her foot and used the card to scrape something from her shoe. She held up the offending wad. Looked like gum. “Do you have a trashcan?”

  Clover did. “Nope. Sorry.”

  The woman put the dirty card on the table and checked out the next vendor.

  Working retail or waitressing couldn’t be worse than this. At least those jobs came with lousy benefits and some pay. In order to cover costs for convention fees, travel expenses, a substandard motel room, shitty food, what she laid out for materials, the business cards and the banner, Clover had to sell several large pieces plus countless smaller ones. Making a profit wasn’t even in the equation.

  Desperate, she put on her wraparound music jewelry and tat bracelet, modeling them.

  Hundreds streamed by, ignoring her.

  The voice returned. “Tasmania’s Treats, table four-seventy, is offering a free ankle bracelet to the first twenty patrons.”

  Time to get competitive and play the freebie game to draw people to her table. On tiptoes, she waved her arms, hoping to flag down the convention crewmember to request an announcement.

  The staffer spoke into her walkie-talkie and glanced around the room, not noticing Clover.

  She grabbed her business cards, slapped on a smile, and blocked whomever she could. “Hi. Do you like unique, one-of-a-kind jewelry?” She touched her wraparound piece and held up her arm, showing off the tat bracelet.

  Humanity parted like the Red Sea and flowed past.

  She held up her flower designs and targeted an older woman who couldn’t flee too quickly. “Pretty, huh? Perfect for bridesmaids’ gifts or for that cherished granddaughter who wants something special to wear to her first dance.”

  “That is lovely.”

  Clover’s pulse jumped at the nice compliment. “And only fifteen dollars. Order ten or more, and the price drops to twelve apiece. I also ship for free.”

  “So affordable. Unfortunately, I have only grandsons. Do you know where the restrooms are?”

  “To the left.” Clover pointed. “Please tell your friends.”

  “About the restrooms?”

  “My jewelry.” She offered a business card.

  Ignoring it, the woman trudged away.

  A life sentence in Sing Sing would be better than this. Clover had blisters from her high heels, pain pounded in her temples, her stomach rumbled for food she couldn’t afford, and her precious designs didn’t impress anyone. An empty drink cup and soiled napkin littered her table.

  She’d had her back turned for only a few seconds. After tossing the stuff in her trashcan, she returned to the aisle for more abuse.

  A thirtysomething guy barreled forward and bumped her shoulder.

  “Hi to you, too.” She turned to give him the finger.

  Past him, Van Gogh stopped dead.

  Clover’s hand fell.

  The voice boomed. “Stomkowski’s Crystal Wear, table…”

  Her ears buzzed, and her legs weakened.

  Van Gogh strode to her, his height and build so impressive people stepped aside to let him pass. He didn’t look at them, his attention on her alone, his smile tender.

  She didn’t understand and instinctively expected Peaches, Trinity, and the rest to show up, too, guessing they had business here. Jewelry to buy for their next bash, along with regular people to annoy or disregard.

  They weren’t around.

  Van Gogh stopped close enough for Clover to touch him.

  She wanted to but feared new hurt, her indecision making her nuts.

  At her lengthening silence, his smile faded. “Hey.”

  His voice sounded deeper and softer than she recalled, reminding her how much she missed hearing him.

  He’d left her voicemails she hadn’t listened to, afraid she’d cry if she did. She’d refused to read his last te
xt, not interested in whatever he wrote about his new friends. She didn’t want to send him a text, either, and admit how badly she failed at selling her stuff. More importantly, how lonely she was.

  Every time she’d bared her feelings to him in the past, he hadn’t had time to listen. His important buddies had texted or called. Peaches demanding something. Trinity in a snit. Shell whining with a right that said the world revolved around her alone.

  Clover couldn’t take that any longer. She didn’t want to be special to everyone on planet Earth. Only him.

  She cupped his face and kissed him gently, unable to resist. His clean lime fragrance and heat nearly undid her. Nothing aroused her like his size and strength.

  He slipped his arm around her waist.

  She broke free and stepped back, scared to give herself completely to him again.

  He followed and reached for her, definitely not shy but certainly clueless.

  Clover pushed his hand off her waist, missed his warmth immediately, and hated herself for such weakness. “What are you doing here? Where’s your posse? Harassing a nerd or a plain Jane for kicks?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Your friends. Wait, I forgot, they have their assistants doing their dirty work. Lucky them.”

  She returned to her table. New slobs had left empty cups and food wrappers. She threw them into her trashcan.

  Van Gogh joined her and cleared his throat. “Can we talk? Please?”

  “Sorry, no. I’m busy trying to make a living.” She gestured to her unsold stuff. “Whatever you want to say, send me a text. I’ll read it later.”

  She wouldn’t and couldn’t if she expected to retain her sanity or heal her heart.

  “Excuse me.” A fortyish woman waved at Clover. “Can you tell me where table seven hundred is?”

  Van Gogh swung his arm to the left. “That way.”

  He’d pointed her in the wrong direction.

  Clover didn’t correct him.

  The woman smiled. “Thanks.”

  “You bet.” He turned to Clover. “I know you’re mad…”

  Wrong. She trembled from hurt he didn’t see. If he tried to mansplain anything to her, she’d totally lose it. “You don’t know anything about me. How could you when you’ve been busy being popular, successful, or whatever the hell it is?”

  “I wasn’t any of those things. I was wrong.”

  Damn right on him being wrong, but his admission wasn’t good enough. Tears stung her eyes. “You still don’t get it, do you?”

  He gestured helplessly. “Get what?”

  “Do you have any idea how badly you treated me at that party?”

  Confusion swept his features. “You mean the one weeks ago?”

  “The only one I went to with you. Good God, am I so unimportant that you don’t remember you partied alone at the others? Or did you go with someone else and you forgot they weren’t me?”

  “That’s not fair. I haven’t been with anyone else. I’ve been exclusive.”

  “You’ve been an insensitive jerk.” She flapped her hand to avoid crying. “When that one girl said she wanted you to meet her brother, you left with her. Just. Like. That. Didn’t say squat to me. No, ‘hey, Clover, let’s see what this is about.’ Or ‘Babe, do you want to do that or would you prefer something else?’ You wiggled your eyebrows like you were really pleased at her invitation, inclined your head for me to follow as if I were a damn pet, then freaking left me there alone like it was no big deal.”

  His face reddened. “I did that?”

  “Are you kidding? Do you think I’m making this up?”

  “Of course not. You should have said something.”

  She got in his face. “I’m saying it now, even though I shouldn’t have to tell a man how to behave like a gentleman or at least have some manners with the woman who supposedly meant something to him.”

  “You did. You do. I was beyond wrong. I’m sorry.”

  Not freaking good enough for what he put her through, whether he realized it or not. “I should have left. I wanted to, but I followed the program because I was worried about you. I thought maybe the booze and sex in the limo, combined with the crowd, had fried your brain, and you were having a mental breakdown or something. Wow, was I mistaken. When you got to the hot tub and stripped—”

  “Hey, lady, you and your friend need to get a room.” The guy who’d bumped into her earlier shot her a nasty frown.

  She gave him the finger.

  He glared. “This is a family event. I’m getting you thrown out.”

  “I wouldn’t advise that.” Van Gogh crowded the shorter, narrower man. “You do anything to her and you’ll answer to me.”

  “Take it easy, buddy.” He put up his hands and smiled. “I don’t want any trouble.”

  “Then get lost.”

  He left.

  Talk about mucho macho man.

  Van Gogh faced her. “I shouldn’t have taken off my clothes. I have no excuse. You have every right to be angry.”

  Hell yeah. She didn’t want to fight, though, yet couldn’t shrug off what happened. She’d stewed in heartache too long. “That wasn’t the worst. Yeah, it was. But you didn’t stop. You kept doing it.”

  His eyebrows lifted slightly. “What?”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “Are you talking about when the water hit you and messed up your bows? Did that ruin your top forever? I can buy you a new one. Tell me where to find it online or even at a store and I’ll get it for you.”

  “I don’t care about that. Art is your life, and this is mine.” She gestured to her table. “When you suggested I strip to my underwear—”

  “Oh hey, I was out of line with that.”

  “It’s not what I’m talking about.” She bounced in place. “You were thoughtless and condescending concerning my talent. You said if I took off my jewelry, it wouldn’t be any biggie. No one there would steal it. Like it was junk, unimportant, worthless to such extraordinary people who can afford the good stuff.”

  “Oh, baby.” He reached for her then quickly lowered his hands. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “Maybe not, but you never pointed out my pieces so the others would notice. I bragged on you, but you said zip about me. You forgot I was even there. Don’t deny it. I know. I followed you, waiting for a word, a glance, something. You ate without asking me to join you or offering me a bite.”

  “I saw you talking to a group about your jewelry. I didn’t want to interrupt.”

  “That was hours before you ate. When you were at the buffet I was there, but not once did you look my way.”

  “I—” He stared. “Are you going to cry?”

  She was trying her best not to and had been doing so for minutes, not that he’d noticed until now. “Don’t change the subject.”

  “I’m not. I’m worried about you.”

  “Now you are. Maybe. What about then and later? You messed up my bathroom. You used my new toothbrush and left my soap drowning in water. Those facial bars are expensive. I’m not rich. I was thirsty but you didn’t leave me enough apple juice to wet my mouth. You gave me the cupcakes as a gift then ate them, leaving me nothing. I had to run to the store for rubbers and other stuff.”

  “I—”

  “Don’t interrupt me!” She ran her finger beneath her nose. “You arrived late for dinner because you were discussing vital things with Zeke or Jacob or whoever the hell held your interest. Nothing as unimportant as you and me being together or whether you’d show up when you promised or if you’d come at all. You blew me off too many damn times. You treated me like nothing. And now you’re here. What happened? Did the clueless crowd unfriend you on Facebook? They deleted your number from their smartphones? They told you to get lost?”

  He sighed.

  “That’s no answer.” She crossed her arms, more pissed now than hurt. “Why are you here?”

  “I love you.”

  Chapter Twenty-One />
  Clover stared at him and stepped back. “Since when?”

  Van Gogh couldn’t blame her for not trusting him. He’d been a bigger tool than he’d thought or Tor had claimed, unaware of the awful things he’d done at the party and in the following weeks until she pointed them out. “I knew for sure I loved you when you got me the pimp shirt.”

  She laughed and sobered quickly. “Dudes your age wear stuff like that all the time.”

  “That would be popular guys. Not me. I’m imperfect as hell.” He held out his arms to show her, praying she still liked what she saw.

  A woman passed. Her luggage-size shoulder bag whapped him.

  Clover looked over and shouted, “Hey, be careful. You could have broken his arm. That would have cost you big bucks. He’s a famous artist.”

  Even after he’d wounded her so deeply, she protected and praised him. His throat constricted. He smiled. “Thanks.”

  Her features softened, but she kept her distance. “You haven’t worked on your paintings, have you?”

  “Not recently. I’m going to start again as soon as your thing here is over.”

  She frowned. “That’s two days from now.”

  “I know. Alice gave me the brochure when I went to your place last night.”

  “You were there? Why?”

  “I called and sent a text. You didn’t answer. When I got there and banged on the door and you still didn’t answer, I worried the heat made you pass out.”

  She put more distance between them and bumped into her table. “Why not call 911? EMTs are paid to take care of medical emergencies. They would have saved you the trouble.”

  “Whatever concerns you isn’t any trouble. It’s important to me. I should have proven that to you before now.” He lifted his hands in surrender. “I went to your place last night to talk and fix things between us. The people from the party aren’t and will never be my posse. They didn’t unfriend me on Facebook. I did that to them and physically threw Zeke out of the parlor. When Peaches called, I told her to get her tats somewhere else. The others, too. They’ll never bother me again, thank God.”